ANNE   DILLON 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

Mrs.  Helen  A.  Dillon 


JANINA 

From  the  drawing  by  W.   T.  Benda 


KOBIETY 

(WOMEN) 

A  Novel  of  Polish  Life 

BY 

SOFJA  RYGIER-NALKOWSKA 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  POLISH 

BY 
MICHAEL  HENRY  DZIEWICKI 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
Knickerbocker 
1920 


COPYKIGHT,  IQ20,  BY 

G."  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


QoUeg* 

inner 


7/57 

CONTENTS 


PAGE 

I.    ICE-PLAINS  ..........        i 

II.     "THE  GARDEN  or  RED  FLOWEES"      ...     103 
III.    A  CANTICLE  OF  LOVE   .  208 


iii 


KOBIETY 


KOBIETY 


ICE-PLAINS 

GlRT  with  a  girdle  of  morning-glory  and 
vetches  in  full  blossom,  and  twining  a  great 
wreath  of  heavy  corn-flowers  round  my  head, 
I  lie  upon  my  back  in  the  forest  glade. 

It  is  a  fine  summer  afternoon,  and  sultry. 
In  the  pines  overhead  there  is  a  faint  mur- 
mur, continuous,  a  little  sad;  the  birches,  with 
their  slender  waving  boughs,  utter  a  quiet 
whisper,  but  no  breeze  is  to  be  felt. 

As  I  lie  here,  I  presently  fall  to  crooning  a 
sing-song  chant — not  any  known  air,  but  one 
made  up  of  many  tunes,  heard  long  ago,  or 
never  heard  at  all.  The  words,  too,  are  either 
remembered,  or  they  spring  up  as  I  sing.  If 
the  rhyme  fails  me,  I  do  not  break  off  the  tune 
to  find  one,  but  make  an  assonance  do  just  as 
well.  So  I  sing  of  a  dream  I  have  dreamt, 


2  Kobiety 

and  then  of  love — hot,  burning  love, — and  I 
end  with  an  invocation  to  the  Faun  of  the 
wood ;  for  my  desire  is  toward  him. 

It  is  warm  and  still.  By  fits  and  starts  birds 
chirp — so  softly  that  they  seem  to  be  whisper- 
ing. I  half  expect  to  see  a  chamois,  with  long 
horns  curling  back  from  its  brow,  peep  out 
wistfully  from  between  the  birch-trunks. 

The  sun,  shining  athwart  the  leaves  that 
quiver,  flings  mobile  twinkling  rounds  of 
light  upon  the  pine-needles.  I  close  my  eyes. 
A  great  bright  stain  appears,  followed  by  a 
succession  of  rainbow  hues,  ending  in  a  spot 
of  scarlet  flame. 

It  is  warm  and  still.  The  scent  of  wild 
thyme  is  in  my  nostrils.  Behold  me,  a  wood- 
land nymph,  awaiting  the  Faun  of  the  woods! 

I  have  left  my  vast  ice-plains,  my  Northern 
Lights,  my  cold  silvery  dreams  among  the 
stalactites  of  my  grottoes,  and  have  come  to 
bask  in  the  strong  sunshine  of  life. 

And  I  welcome  life  with  a  peal  of  laughter, 
the  outcome  of  many  a  day  of  tortured 
thought  and  fruitless  pondering.  I  yield  my- 
self up  to  it,  not  from  any  internal  weakness, 
but  submitting  to  its  brutality  with  a  supreme 


Ice-Plains  3 

effort  that  crushes  down  all  repulsion,  all 
revolt. 

Upon  the  ruins  of  my  mystic  dreams  there 
has  grown  up  a  lush  rank  flower — the  wor- 
\ship  of  Life  and  its  delights. 

And  my  resignation  is  ungrudging,  royally 
complete:  for  I  do  love  life,  in  spite  of  all. 

My  mind — my  cruel,  insatiable,  gloomy 
mind — would  have  put  happiness  to  death; 
but  I  now  trample  it  down.  To-day  I  will 
pluck  the  flame-red  blossom  of  Life:  and  my 
song  shall  call  upon  the  Faun! 

No  Faun  comes  to  my  call;  but  instead  of 
his  hoofs,  I  hear  the  gallop  of  a  horse  in  the 
distance.  Laying  my  ear  to  the  ground,  I 
make  sure. 

Yes,  I  know:  it  is  Janusz,  coming  after 
me.  So  I  cease  from  singing,  and  lie  silent 
and  without  motion;  he  is  riding  along  the 
forest  pathway,  and  I  hope  he  may  miss  me, 
hidden  here  among  the  pines.  And  yet  I  am 
not  unaware  that,  should  he  ride  past  and 
not  discover  me,  I  should  feel  disappointed. 
Notwithstanding,  I  make  no  movement.  The 
only  deceit  I  care  to  shun  is  self-deceit. 

Janusz,  who  has  seen  me  afar  amongst  the 
birches  and  the  pines,  urges  his  horse  for- 


4  Kobiety 

ward,  and  approaches  behind  me,  so  that  I 
cannot  catch  sight  of  him.  He  means  (so  I 
guess)  to  come  upon  me  suddenly  with  a  rush, 
and  frighten  or  flutter  me,  or  in  some  way  or 
other  throw  me  off  my  balance.  On  which 
account,  I  take  care  not  to  make  the  least 
movement,  lying  with  my  hands  clasped  un- 
derneath my  head,  and  looking  up  at  the  sky. 

He  rides  at  me  with  a  swift  run,  and  reins 
in  his  horse  only  two  paces  away  from  me. 
He  at  once  realizes  that  my  attitude  is  a  chal- 
lenge; it  annoys  him.  There  is  a  pause.  In 
order  to  make  me  turn  my  head  in  his  direc- 
tion, he  keeps  his  horse  standing  in  the  same 
place:  this  is  hard  to  do. 

But  I  too  remain  motionless,  repressing  a 
desire  to  laugh.  Janusz  is,  I  know,  too  good 
a  rider  to  let  his  beast  tread  upon  me.  I 
can  hear  it  snorting  impatiently,  and  its  hoofs 
pawing  the  ground. 

The  flies  in  the  wood  torment  it  so  much 
that  presently  it  is  unable  to  restrain  itself, 
and  frets  forward  a  few  paces,  to  my  side. 
And  so  I  can  see  Janusz.  A  handsome  man, 
in  a  light-coloured  jockey's  cap,  tight-fitting 
trousers,  and  long  patent  leather  boots;  just 
now  so  vexed  that  his  nostrils  are  quivering. 


Ice-Plains  5 

Bowing  stiffly,  he  takes  his  right  foot  out 
of  the  stirrup,  and  prepares  to  dismount. 

"You  might  have  failed  to  see  me,  and  rid- 
den farther.  I  thought  you  would,"  I  re- 
mark, with  a  faint  uninterested  smile. 

"As  it  happened,  I  did  not  fail." 

"So  I  see." 

"Did  you  want  me  to  fail?" 

"I  did." 

"For  what  reason,  pray?" 

"I  was  in  a  very  pleasant  mood — a  sort  of 
pantheistic  mingling  with  Nature,  that  re- 
quires solitude  to  be  enjoyed." 

"All  the  same,  I  am  going  to  stay,"  he  says 
with  a  determined  air,  and  carefully  ties  his 
horse's  reins  to  a  pine-branch. 

A  silence  follows.  Janusz  brushes  a  few 
pine-cones  out  of  his  way,  and  then  seats  him- 
self by  my  side.  I  sit  up  likewise,  arrange  the 
wreath  of  corn-flowers  on  my  head,  and  lean 
back  against  a  trunk. 

"Do  you  not  see  that  we  are  at  odds?"  he 
asks  at  length. 

"That  may  very  well  be,"  I  answer  with 
some  disdain.  "And  how  did  you  find  out 
where  I  was?" 

"I  followed  you." 


6  Kobiety 

"Did  you,  indeed?" 

"My  balcony  commands  an  extensive  view. 
Your  rose-coloured  dress  was  plainly  to  be 
seen,  as  you  went  along  the  meadows  and 
fields.  You  followed  the  path  that  skirts  the 
ditch,  did  you  not?  And  so  on  to  the  wood, 
where  you  disappeared.  I  followed  on  horse- 
back along  the  highroad :  a  far  shorter  way." 

"Yes,  your  way;  straight  on,  but  less  pic- 
turesque than  mine." 

"Am  I  to  see  some  hidden  meaning  in 
this?" 

"Oh,  no,  you  need  not — as  you  choose." 

Janusz  is  of  those  who  love  "intellectual" 
talk;  I  put  forth  all  the  social  tact  that  I  have, 
and  do  my  best  to  keep  down  to  his  level.  I 
strive  to  attract  him,  not  with  my  good  looks, 
but  with  my  mental  charms,  which  I  have 
now  enlisted  in  the  service  of  my  physical 
self.  My  coquetry  varies  in  quality  as  does 
the  psychical  character  of  its  object;  and  thus 
it  never  fails  in  artistry.  Here  I  am  guided 
by  the  Law  of  Contrast.  For  instance,  when 
I  first  flirted  with  Roslawski,  I  brought  into 
play  the  primitive  elemental  sides  of  my  na- 
ture; though  indeed  I  had  later  to  change 
all  my  tactics.  And  it  is  my  quality  as  a 


Ice-Plains  7 

woman — with  my  womanly  wisdom  and  wit 
and  originality — that  I  am  acting  upon 
Janusz;  should  I  lose  half  my  good  looks,  I 
should  still,  as  a  woman,  be  not  less  lovable 
in  his  eyes.  In  the  psychology  of  contem- 
porary love,  this  is  a  significant  fact. 

Over  his  handsome  clean-cut  face,  a  glow 
passes  now  and  again.  His  eyes  are  fixed 
upon  my  features.  I  meanwhile,  swift  in 
change  as  a  chameleon,  and  bright  with  radi- 
ant looks  and  glances,  am  watching  him  with 
artistic  and  quite  impersonal  interest:  with 
those  quivering  sensitive  nostrils,  he  makes  me 
think  of  some  beautiful  high-bred  animal. 
His  eyes,  which  usually  beam  and  glisten, 
are  at  preasent  dimmed  and  glazed  over,  as 
if  their  fire  had  been  extinguished,  burned 
out  by  the  passion  within  him.  Now  and 
then  his  eyes  fall  before  mine,  and  he  at- 
tempts to  call  up  a  pleasant  smile;  but  in  the 
attempt  his  white  teeth  glitter  dangerously. 

A  gnat  has  settled  on  his  forehead,  and  I 
tell  him  so.  He  waves  it  away  listlessly. 

"Let  it  bite,"  he  says  with  a  smile;  "it  mat- 
ters little.  I  have  blood  enough  and  to 
spare." 

There  is  a  touch  of  self-satisfaction  in  his 


8  Kobiety 

voice  as  he  says  this.  It  was  then  a  mistake 
of  mine  to  have  supposed  him  unaware  of  the 
nature  of  his  strength.  Knowledge  of  one's 
strong  points  makes  for  happiness;  he  is  en- 
viable. 

Now  he  takes  up  some  pine-cones,  with 
which  he  pelts  his  horse  playfully.  It  begins 
to  kick  and  stamp.  Instead  of  teasing  the 
poor  brute  to  no  purpose,  he  ought  (I  say) 
to  take  one  of  the  trees  for  his  mark;  and  with 
that  I  go  up  to  the  horse.  It  gives  me  a  dis- 
trustful look  out  of  its  beautiful  eyes,  while 
I  stroke  and  pat  its  neck. 

"Miss  Janina,  do  not  go  so  near  my  beast; 
it  may  hurt  you." 

"You  were  not  afraid  when  it  was  but  now 
standing  close  to  my  head,"  I  reply  laugh- 
ingly. 

"But  I  was  holding  it  in  then,"  he  mutters 
between  his  set  teeth. 

Up  he  comes,  stretching  out  his  hand  to 
pull  me  away  by  force;  but  I  flash  him  a 
quick  glance  of  surprise,  and  at  once  he  is 
subdued. 

"I  beg  you,"  he  says  in  a  voice  half-stran- 
gled with  emotion,  "I  beg  you  to  let  me  kiss 
your  hand." 


Ice-Plains  9 

He  is  quite  close  to  me.  One  instant  I  am 
hot  as  fire;  but  I  do  not  draw  away  from  him, 
nor  put  my  hands  behind  me.  Standing  mo- 
tionless, with  my  half-averted  head  bent  down 
close  to  the  horse's  mane,  I  answer  calmly: 

"I  will  not." 

Janusz,  with  dog-like  obedience,  shrinks 
back,  and  stands  a  few  paces  away. 

"Let  us  go  home  now,"  I  say  after  a  short 
silence;  "but  you  must  let  me  ride  your 
horse." 

"With  the  utmost  pleasure;  but  then,  how 
will  you  manage  for  a  saddle?" 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  Even  on  your  saddle, 
I  can  contrive  to  ride  woman-fashion.  Only 
you  will  have  to  arrange  the  stirrup." 

I  leap  into  the  saddle,  my  foot  just  touch- 
ing his  hand.  Janusz  himself  settles  it  in  the 
stirrup,  which  he  shortens  for  me.  As  he  does 
so,  I  once  more  see  a  glow  sweep  over  his  face. 

"Pray  allow  me  to  lead  the  horse.  It  is 
restive,  and  may  throw  you." 

"No,  thanks ;  I  am  not  in  the  least  afraid." 

On  a  sudden,  with  an  unexpected  move- 
ment, he  catches  hold  of  me,  and  presses  his 
face  hard  against  my  knees. 

At  the  same  instant  nearly,  I  give  the  horse 


io  Kobiety 

a  smart  blow  with  my  whip,  and  gallop  away, 
not  looking  behind  me;  it  is  not  easy  to  keep 
my  balance  on  that  saddle. 

This  I  have  done,  not  to  escape  from  him, 
nor  as  being  in  any  sort  of  fear.    It  was  only 
that  he  should  not  perceive  my  flushed  face- 
flushed    neither   with    indignation   nor   with 
shame. 

Janusz  has  gone  to  L.  for  some  days.  I  am 
alone  with  Martha,  with  whom  I  enjoy  my- 
self very  much.  There  is  no  one  else  on  earth 
with  whom  I  can  share  the  delight  of  read- 
ing together  wise  and  beautiful  books.  As 
we  read,  we  become  lost  in  mutual  admiration 
at  the  depth  and  subtlety  of  the  remarks  we 
make:  whence  arises  a  delightful  state  of 
mind  in  which  each  loses  consciousness  of  the 
other  being  present.  Our  impressions  are 
equally  instantaneous,  equally  immediate;  a 
look,  a  gesture,  suffices  for  one  to  understand 
the  other.  We  are  growing  absolutely  sim- 
ilar, all  but  identical.  Set  apart  from  all  that 
surrounds  us,  our  minds  meet  on  dizzy 
heights,  spanned  by  aerial  bridges  which 
bring  our  souls  together,  over  the  tremendous 
gulfs  that  stretch  beneath  us ;  thereon  few  can 


Ice-Plains  II 

walk,  for  the  bridges  are  of  gossamer  threads. 
In  the  valleys  of  the  mind  it  is  not  hard  for 
two  souls  to  come  together;  but  as  one  reaches 
the  mountain-tops,  each  is  farther  and  farther 
apart,  and  the  chasm  between  them  becomes 
more  and  more  profound ;  besides,  at  the  tread 
of  the  first  ponderous  foot,  those  bridges  of 
cunning  workmanship,  running  from  peak  to 
peak,  are  broken  and  fall  to  pieces. 

Nevertheless,  there  is  no  love,  nor  even 
much  liking,  between  Martha  and  myself. 
We  do  not  so  much  as  call  each  other  friends. 
We  both  agree  that,  between  one  woman  jind 
another,  no  true  love  is  possiEIefjand  so  we 
do  not  try  to  cheat  ourselves  with  a  counter- 
feit. But,  though  we  do  not  say  everything 
openly  and  in  words,  still  we  know  and  un- 
derstand one  another  to  perfection. 

The  one  thing  that  could  drive  us  apart 
would  be  mutual  rivalry  in  love  for  a  man. 
Happily,  however,  Martha  holds  this  to  be 
out  of  the  question.  Ascetically  disposed,  she 
prides  herself  on  the  fact  that  no  one  has  ever 
loved  her.  She  likes  as  a  rule  to  play  the 
part  of  one  that  the  world  and  that  men  mis- 
understand and  fail  to  appreciate.  This  part, 
moreover,  she  plays  very  gracefully,  she  be- 


12  Kobiety 

ing  a  pretty  girl,  and  no  one  taking  her  too 
much  in  earnest. 

"My  life,"  she  is  wont  to  say,  "is  as  pure 
as  a  blank  page;  no  thrill  is  recorded  there, 
no  kiss,  no  blush.  I  have  no  faith  save  in  this 
crystal  transparency  of  my  being;  save  in  the 
knowledge  that  Life  passes  close  to  me, 
touches  me,  grazes  me,  and  yet  by  some 
miracle  never  leaves  upon  my  long  white 
robe  one  streak  from  the  golden  pollen  of  the 
flowers  she  bears;  no  faith  save  in  the  im- 
maculateness  of  this  my  soul,  that  can  travel 
through  a  coal-mine,  and  yet  come  out  white 
as  snow.  The  only  article  of  my  faith,  the 
sole  thing  I  care  for,  is  the  conviction  that  I 
shall  go  through  life  nobly  and  beautifully, 
in  sweetness  and  tranquillity  infinite;  that  my 
passage  upon  earth  will  be  all  sunshine  and 
loveliness:  the  blossoming  of  a  rare  and 
goodly  flower.  So  may  I  die!  Even  though 
love  could  give  me  happiness,  I  still  would 
stand  aloof  from  it.  .  .  ." 

Yes,  but  now  and  then  in  the  dim  blue  twi- 
light, she  plays  Der  Fruhling  of  Grieg:  and 
then  I  feel  that  what  she  says  is  not  the  truth. 
In  her  notes  there  is  a  tone  of  longing  un- 
speakable, that  begs,  with  gentle  half-audible 


Ice-Plains  13 

entreaty  .  .  .  for  something.  And  that  fair 
white  soul  of  her  is  always  sobbing  with  pain, 
and  dreaming — ever  dreaming — of  love. 

When  all  is  said,  I  am  clever,  young,  and 
good-looking:  so  I  want  to  live  my  life. 
Nietzsche  will  not  have  us  forget  the  law: 
For  a  woman,  a  stick.  Amiel  declares  she 
must  love  one  only,  and  obey  a  sex-morality 
that  has  been  made  for  her  alone.  Garborg 
tells  us  that  she  ought  not  to  go  anywhere 
without  a  governess,  so  that  her  future  hus- 
band may  find  suspicion  impossible.  In  spite  , 
of  all  which,  I  am  resolved  to  live  my  own  f 
woman's  life. 

Hitherto    I    have    not    found    out    what 
femininity  essentially  is.     In  the  Roslawski 

deriod,  I  piously  believed  aesthetic  feeling  to 
e  the  great  typical  quality  of  womanliness_. 
But  now — Ellen  Key  asserts  that  the  woman 
always  shapes  herself  as  the  man  desires.  If 
then  he,  the  Only  One,  be  a  primitive,  mas- 
terful, despotic  man,  am  I  to  season  his  siesta 
and  cigar  with  witty  conversation,  and  bind 
my  hair  and  dance  and  sound  the  timbrel  for 
him,  whilst  to  all  others  my  eyes  alone  are  to 
be  visible,  my  face  hidden  under  a  veil?  I 


14  Kobiety 

want  to  live  my  woman's  life  .  .  .  nothing 
more.     Until,  perhaps  .  .  . 

x*"* *™*"v 

Oh,  how  hard  it  is  for  a  girl  to  bear,  upon 
I  her  white  and  shapely  shoulders,  the  awful 
/  burden  of  conscious  humanity! 


c-- 


At  times,  Janusz  is  as  gentle  as  a  tame 
young  wolf,  and  that  ravenous  look  has  faded 
from  his  eyes.  Then  I  permit  him  to  kiss  my 
hands  and  lay  them  to  his  sunburnt  cheeks. 
When  the  wild  beast  within  him  has  for  a 
while  fallen  asleep,  he  has  all  the  kindness, 
all  the  sweetness  of  a  child.  Yet  even  then  I 
feel  the  presence  of  a  latent  force  which  may 
break  out  at  any  time:  a  force  which — I  can- 
not tell  why — seems  to  me  antagonistic. 

"How  I  wish  you  would  allow  me  to  call 
you  my  darling!"  he  said  to-day,  when  sitting 
at  my  feet  on  a  bank  of  turf,  and  touching  the 
border  of  my  skirt  caressingly,  like  a  favour- 
ite cat. 

I  looked  from  above  at  the  long  lashes  of 
his  downcast  eyes,  at  his  scarlet  lips,  at  his 
beautifully  chiselled  nose,  and  said  within 
myself:  "Why  don't  you  then?  I  should 
only  just  set  one  long  loving  kiss — two  per- 


Ice-Plains  15 

haps — upon  those  lips  of  yours  and  leave  you 
without  one  word  of  regret." 

"Are  you  offended  then?"  he  asked,  look- 
ing up  at  me. 

I  knitted  my  brows  slightly,  but  could  not 
keep  the  corners  of  my  mouth  still. 

"Yes,  I  am." 

"But  you  are  smiling.  Why  do  you  smile 
so  strangely?" 

And  his  eyes  gaze  at  me  from  under  his 
thick  brows — gaze  slyly  and  sweetly,  while 
the  hot  blood  burns  in  my  cheeks.  Never,  in 
the  days  of  Roslawski  and  our  long-learned 
conversations  about  literature,  did  I  feel  such 
a  sensation  as  this. 

An  evening  party  at  the  Sedniewski's,  Top- 
olow:  somebody's  name-day.  All  four  of  us 
go,  Martha  and  I,  the  grandfather,  and 
Janusz.  Rather  a  large  gathering:  girls  like 
flowers,  fresh  and  bright-hued.  Some  of  the 
young  men  have  been  brought  for  the  occa- 
sion from  as  far  as  Lodz. 

I  go  in,  with  my  cheeks  fresh  and  ruddy 
from  our  drive  along  the  windy  road:  my 
dress  is  of  a  beautiful  sea-green  hue.  The 
party  is  quaintly  and  prettily  framed  in  a 


16  Kobiety 

large  low-ceilinged  drawing-room,  lighted 
from  above  by  an  antique  chandelier,  with 
tiers  of  branches  that  shed  sparkling  many- 
coloured  light  around.  Along  the  walls  stand 
many  fine  old  pieces  of  furniture,  and  on  the 
veranda  outside  an  orchestra  is  softly  tuning 
up. 

As  I  enter,  I  make  an  impression — the  usual 
one.  For  a  time,  whilst  every  glance  is  turned 
in  my  direction,  I  feel  as  if  pitted  against 
them  all.  But,  though  I  scarce  know  any  one 
here,  I  am  not  embarrassed  even  for  one  in- 
stant. The  sensation  of  unfriendliness,  borne 
in  upon  me  from  those  around,  the  feeling  of 
my  loneliness  in  this  throng,  only  produces  in 
me  a  reaction  of  haughty  defiance.  I  should 
feel  more  embarrassed  if  I  did  not  make  this 
impression,  and  should  come  in  without  at- 
tracting any  attention  at  all. 

As  Madame  Sedniewska  welcomes  me,  I 
overhear  a  whispered  remark  on  my  left. 
"Dressed  like  a  third-rate  actress." 

This  interests  me,  and  I  turn  round;  for  I 
think  the  observation,  though  quite  beside  the 
mark,  rather  neatly  expressed.  A  tall  girl, 
dressed  in  white,  English  style  from  head  to 
foot,  meets  my  eyes,  and  silently  gives  me  back 


Ice-Plains  17 

glance  for  glance.  Beyond  question  it  is  she. 
After  all  the  introductions  have  been  made,  I 
proceed  by  choice  to  converse  with  her. 

Her  name  is  Imszanska;  she  has  an  ugly 
fiance  and  a  handsome  brother;  the  most  in- 
teresting (I  think)  of  all  the  young  men 
present.  He  asks  me  politely  how  I  like  the 
country-side  here,  and  then  goes  on  talking 
to  Martha,  who  in  her  evening  dress  looks 
less  comely  than  her  wont,  her  face  being  pale 
and  wearing  an  expression  of  unnatural  con- 
straint. 

We  take  tea;  after  which  dancing  begins. 

Dancing  is  to  me  a  pastime  as  pleasant  as 
riding;  and  I  dance  splendidly.  Again  and 
again,  in  one  of  the  long  mirrors  that  reach 
to  the  floor,  I  see  myself  and  the  black  arms 
which  encircle  me,  my  listless  form  thrown 
backwards  indolently,  sleepily  as  it  were,  my 
red  lips  contrasting  with  the  white  of  my  set 
teeth,  and  sea-green  gauze  floating  round  me 
in  loose  watery  undulations;  while  about  my 
figure  twine  the  elastic  snake-like  stalks  of 
great  white  nanuphar  blossoms. 

I  am  soon  aware  that  I  have  made  an  im- 
pression— an  impression  so  palpable  that  the 
women  themselves  pretend  to  be,  not  only  un- 


i8  Kobiety 

concerned,  but  pleased  at  my  success.  One 
of  them  is  so  kind  as  to  set  a  hairpin  straight 
for  me.  At  such  an  entertainment,  the  strug- 
gle to  be  first,  though  depriving  it  of  some  of 
the  pleasure  which  it  should  directly  give, 
affords  us  the  interest  of  a  game  in  which,  the 
harder  it  is  to  win,  the  more  intoxicating  the 
victory  becomes. 

After  the  cotillon,  which  I  danced  with 
Imszanski,  I  stood  up  with  Janusz  for  the 
"Oberek."  He  is  a  perfect  master  of  cere- 
monies, and  as  such  he  is  sans  peur  et  sans  re- 
proche. 

I  like  to  dance  with  him  most  of  all.  He 
bears  me  along  like  a  runaway  steed.  Career- 
ing in  a  tiny  orbit,  towards  the  centre  of 
which  we  lean  all  the  time,  we  turn  round  and 
round  with  vertiginous  speed,  like  two  planets 
run  mad.  Locked  in  each  other's  arms,  car- 
ried onward  by  our  own  impetus,  we  glide 
along  with  half-closed  eyes,  involuntarily,  all 
but  unconsciously,  with  a  passive  motion,  as 
if  by  ourselves  unable  to  keep  so  tremendous 
a  pace.  Around  us  we  perceive  only  a  con- 
fused mass  of  thick  clotted  brightness;  the 
lights,  the  mirrors,  the  brilliant  circle  of 
lookers-on,  are  no  longer  distinguishable  as 


Ice-Plains  19 

they  fly  round  us :  all  is  merged  in  one  maze 
of  colours. 

A  wild  flame  is  gleaming  in  my  partner's 
eyes,  and  their  pupils  are  sparkling  like  sun- 
lit diamonds.  Our  maddening  pace,  together 
with  that  dancing  tune,  boisterous  with  its 
musically  monotonous  din,  are  acting  upon 
him  as  a  war-dance  acts  upon  a  primitive  race. 

As  for  me,  though  his  hot  breath  is  on  me 
like  a  flame,  I  feel  quite  calm.  Tired  out, 
almost  fainting,  I  meekly  let  his  wild  "rav- 
ishing strides"  carry  me  along  as  he  chooses. 

At  last  I  go  back  to  my  seat;  a  deafening 
thunder  of  applause  greets  us  both;  I  bow 
my  head  to  thank  them,  but  can  for  some  time 
distinguish  nothing.  Meanwhile  I  hear 
Janusz,  who  has  regained  his  self-control,  and 
is  now  ordering  the  orchestra  to  play  the 
"Mazur." 

Miss  Imszanska,  coming  up  and  seating  her- 
self by  my  side,  says  to  me:  "You  dance  with 
all  the  grace  of  a  swan;  my  brother  says  he 
never  saw  anything  like  it." 

In  the  intervals  between  the  dances,  we 
walk  in  the  garden,  which  is  extensive  and 
full  of  trees.  The  white  flowers  of  the  to- 
bacco-plants, just  visible  at  night  against  the 


20  Kobiety 

blackness  of  the  sward,  breathe  forth  their 
strange  and  intense  aroma.  A  sort  of  drowsy 
hallucination  takes  possession  of  me:  I  fancy 
I  am  on  earth  no  longer,  but  in  some  Hades 
of  flowers,  of  sweet  sounds,  of  beautiful 
things,  and  of  Night  triumphant.  I  lean 
heavily  on  Janusz,  almost  nestling  in  his  arms. 
My  smile  gleams  white  in  the  dusk,  and  my 
long  eye-lashes  quiver  as  with  sleep.  Janusz 
bends  over  me,  and  his  gaze  seeks  to  meet 
mine. 

"Look  at  me!"  he  whispers,  glowing  with 
impatience. 

I  too  am  all  aglow;  yet  I  turn  my  head 
away,  and  look  stubbornly  at  some  cluster  of 
bushes  at  a  distance.  But  all  the  time  my 
heart  is  beseeching  him,  and  saying  over  and 
over:  "Kiss  me,  kiss  me — now — now — now!" 

A  moment  before,  a  dress  was  still  looming 
in  the  dark  in  front  of  us;  now  we  are  quite 
alone.  Our  eyes  have  begun  to  make  out  the 
shapes  of  things;  we  can  discern  the  trees,  and 
the  long  narrow  strip  of  pathway  where  we 
are  walking  between  two  hedges  of  quickset. 
Black  cloudlike  shadows  seem  now  to  flee 
away,  now  to  gather  and  close  upon  us. 


Ice-Plains  21 

Suddenly  a  spasm  of  horrible  unearthly 
dread  clutches  at  my  heart. 

"Good  God!    Look  there!"  I  cry. 

"What— what  of  it?" 

I  raise  my  hand  to  my  eyes,  and  shudder  all 
over  with  fear,  and  press  close  to  him. 

"There — just  beneath  us,  far,  horribly  far 
down — there  is  water!" 

"Well,  what  of  that?  There  is  nothing  to 
be  frightened  at.  I  know  the  garden;  it  is 
only  a  brook  which  feeds  the  pond." 

"Let  us  go  away — away  at  once.  I  saw 
it  glitter  through  the  leaves  in  the  dark:  it 
was  so  strange!  And  so  deep  down:  an  abyss 
where  I  never  dreamed  the  ground  sloped  at 
all." 

"But  we  could  not  fall  in:  there  is  a  stone 
barrier." 

"No  matter,"  I  whisper,  half-frantic  with 
dread.  "Let  us  go!" 

We  make  the  best  of  our  way  back.  Janusz 
is  silent,  but  I  feel,  as  I  am  holding  to  his 
arm,  that  he  too  is  trembling.  He  might  have 
quieted  me  with  the  words:  "Fear  nothing  by 
my  side!"  For  but  a  minute  ago,  I  had 
boundless  confidence  in  him.  Now  I  know 
that  he  can  be  frightened. 


22  Kobiety 

We  hear  the  sounds  of  the  harp  and  the 
violin,  and  a  row  of  lit  windows  shines  on 
the  pitch-black  trees. 

Janusz  breaks  the  silence.    "I  have  no  fear 
in  a  forest  at  night;  I  fear  neither  robbers  nor\ 
wild  beasts:    but  things  one  cannot  explain  j 
are  not  to  my  liking." 

Yes,  I  quite  understand,  and  share  the  same 
dislike :  but  somehow  I  had  a  fancy  that  .  .  . 

We  dance  merrily  till  morning;  my  painful 
impression  has  quite  faded. 

As  we  return,  we  change  places;  Martha 
goes  with  her  grandfather,  and  I  am  with 
Janusz.  Daybreak  shows  us  a  lovely  land- 
scape: hills  covered  with  dark  woods,  fields 
white  with  stubble.  The  sky  grows  rosy,  and 
we  catch  ever  new  glimpses  of  dim  heights, 
of  solitary  pear-trees  scattered  in  the  fields,  of 
tall  sombre  poplars  in  rows,  marking  the 
highways  in  the  plain. 

We  travel  long  by  a  road  full  of  deep  holes ; 
we  climb  the  heights,  we  go  down  into  the 
valleys.  All  the  country  round  is  enchant- 
ingly  beautiful. 

Up  comes  the  sun,  casting  upon  the  road 
distinct  mobile  shadows,  lengthened  out  mon- 


Ice-Plains  23 

strously,  of  our  two  equipages  and  of  our  own 
figures. 

I  feel  stupefied  after  this  sleepless  night; 
my  face  is  hot,  my  lips  are  burning.  Yet,  and 
in  spite  of  my  plaid  and  the  rugs,  I  shiver 
with  cold,  I  close  my  eyes  and  lean  my  head 
against  the  back  of  the  carriage,  listening  to 
the  screaking  wheels,  to  the  trot  of  the  snort- 
ing horses,  and  to  the  timid  chirruping  of  the 
birds,  just  roused  by  daylight.  Though 
awake,  I  am  dreaming. 

Janusz  bends  over  me,  and  touches  my  lips 
with  his  in  a  gentle  kiss,  as  if  he  meant  not  to 
wake  me. 

I  do  not  move  at  all,  and  pretend  to  sleep 
on,  though  well  aware  that  Janusz  knows  I 
am  awake. 

And  now  my  golden  morning — here  it  is! 

On  one  of  the  last  warm  summer  days, 
Martha  and  I  go  and  bathe  together  outside 
the  park.  When  undressed,  she  is  very  pleas- 
ant to  look  upon.  She  pretends  to  object,  but 
puts  on  her  bathing-dress  so  deliberately  that 
I  can  gaze  quite  at  my  ease.  After  having 
bathed  in  the  clear  cool  water,  we  return  and 
lie  down  on  the  lush  grass  in  the  park.  We 


24  Kobiety 

are  surrounded  by  tall  trunks,  bare  to  a  great 
height;  far  above  us  their  branches  form  a 
canopy  of  bright  green  verdure  under  the 
blue  sky. 

"I  wonder,"  say  I  to  her,  "how  plain  peo- 
ple feel  about  themselves.  With  us,  comeli- 
ness is  such  a  matter  of  course!  ...  If  I 
were  to  lose  my  good  looks,  or  even  my  knowl- 
edge that  I  am  good-looking,  I  really  think  I 
could  not  bear  life.  ...  It  is  that  alone 
which  gives  me  strength  in  presence  of  others. 
I  go  out  in  the  full  glare  of  day  without  a 
sunshade;  in  company,  I  sit  with  my  face 
turned  straight  to  the  lamplight;  I  walk  in 
the  crowd,  with  head  erect,  fearing  no  one) 
abashed  by  no  one — simply  because  I  know 
that  the  sight  of  me  must  cause  pleasure. 
...  If  I  am  good-natured,  it  is  because  of 
my  good  looks.  I  hate  nobody,  envy  nobody, 
and  am  filled  with  a  sort  of  Pagan,  sunshiny, 
royal  love  for  all." 

"And  which  of  us  two  do  you  think  is  pret- 
tier?" asks  Martha. 

"I    don't   know.  ...  In   reality,   each   oi 
us  thinks  herself  prettier;  but  we  are  both  too, 
cultured  ever  to  have  tried  conclusions  oj 
that  subject." 


Ice-Plains  25 

Strictly  speaking,  I  am  not  so  fair  as  she: 
but  then,  she  is  less  graceful  than  I.  Besides, 
my  eyes  have  a  golden  tint,  such  as  no  other 
girls  have,  so  far  as  I  know. 

I  often  walk  a  few  versts  with  Martha,  as 
far  as  the  "Kirkut,"  or  Jewish  cemetery. 

There  they  stand,  the  hewn  gravestones,  in 
long  parallel  upright  rows.  Upon  them  you 
may  see  cabalistic  signs  and  symbols;  a  lion, 
a  broken  taper,  or  a  shelf  of  books;  and  cer- 
tain embellishments  that  might  almost  be 
styled  "decadent."  The  graves,  overgrown 
with  moss,  heather,  and  wild  thyme,  are 
nearly  level  with  the  rest  of  the  ground.  The 
wooden  inclosure,  over  which  we  always  have 
to  climb,  is  lost  in  the  woods  among  the  pine- 
trunks;  and  those  long  regular  rows  of  stones 
raise  their  heads  in  a  forest  elsewhere  un- 
touched by  man.  Here,  I  feel  as  though  I 
had  gone  far  back  into  the  dim  immemorial 
Past 

I  love  that  burial-ground ;  I  love  to  contem- 
plate Life  trampling  upon  Death;  and  as  I 
gaze,  I  cease  to  fear  Death  any  more.  Death 
makes  away  with  the  individual  only,  with 
the  accidental  manifestations  of  Life:  Life 


26  Kobiety 

itself  remains.  I  see  myself  standing  for  the 
whole  of  mankind,  and  identical  with  Life.  I 
always  was ;  I  shall  be  everlasting.  .  .  .  Death 
is  slumbering  quietly  beneath  my  feet. 

And  with  that  a  delightful  sense,  as  it  were 
of  infinite  might,  comes  over  me.  To  my 
power,  to  my  continuance,  I  can  find  no  limit-. 
I  am  not  of  the  earth,  I  am  not  Janka 
Dernowicz;  I  am  eternal,  unsleeping  con- 
sciousness; I  am  the  Universe!  In  this 
burial-ground,  Janusz  grows  dismal,  and 
holds  forth  on  the  evanescence  of  all  earthly 
things.  A  beautiful  animal  which  lives  in 
fear  of  Death! 

What  if  it  be  true  that  animals  have  no 
souls? 

At  times  I  experience  the  pangs  of  an  en- 
tirely unjustified  longing  for  the  man  who 
came  into  my  life  and  went  out  of  it  like  a 
hurricane.  Yes,  now  and  again  I  long  for 
my  ice-plains  and  my  Northern  Lights! 

Once  he  asked  me  whether  I  should  never 
wish  to  feel  and  think  and  strive  along  with 
some  companion  in  life. 

Then  I  burst  into  laughter;  for  I  hate  sen- 


Ice-Plains  27 

timent — hate  to  mix  uo  love  and  "brother- 
hood of  souls." 

Now  I  am  near  thinking  that  this  man, 
whom  I  never  loved,  may  be  the  only  one  fit 
to  become  my  husband. 

Often  of  nights,  lying  awake  and  staring 
into  the  darkness  with  wide-open  eyes,  I  feel 
burning  lips,  lips  famished  with  hunger,  that 
are  pressed  to  mine.  .  .  . 

And  when  I  seize  the  kiss  upon  those  lips, 
I  know  that  they  are  the  lips,  not  of  Roslaw- 
ski,  but  of  Janusz. 

And  then  I  am  full  of  terror  lest  an  evil 
thing  has  been  done  that  never  can  be  undone 
— lest  something  may  have  fallen  away  for 
ever  out  of  my  life. 

Then  do  I  no  longer  feel  any  desire  for  any 
one ;  and  I  weep  in  the  dark,  but  silently,  not 
to  awaken  Martha. 

In  the  morning,  I  look  upon  Janusz  with 
hatred  and  with  loathing;  and  I  treat  him 
harshly,  though  he  is  indeed  in  no  wise  to 
blame.  I  merely  use  him  ill,  because  my 
soul  is  a-wandering  alone  over  those  ice-plains 
of  mine,  is  still  dreaming  cold  silvery  dreams, 
is  seeking  in  vain  for  a  fraternal  soul. 


28  Kobiety 

f      Is  it  then  really  an  impossibility  to  be  in 
\love  without  loving  also? 

While  out  shooting  to-day,  Janusz  had  just 
such  a  gleam  in  his  eyes  as  he  has  when  he 
gloats  on  me. 

He  is  a  typical  primitive  man  of  a  nomad 
race  of  hunters,  in  whom  the  instinct  of  con- 
servation manifests  itself  as  vehemently  when 
procuring  his  own  subsistence  as  when  act- 
ing for  the  preservation  of  the  race.  Game 
is  to  him  a  vital  necessity;  so  is  woman. 

I  was  sorry  for  the  hares  he  had  killed  and 
lectured  him  with  great  unction  on  man's  cru- 
elty in  taking  the  lives  of  such  defenceless  in- 
nocent creatures. 

Just  now  I  was  thinking  how  I  should  like 
to  lock  Janusz  up  in  a  nice  cage,  and  have 
him  all  to  myself.  I  should  give  him  plenty 
of  food,  but  neither  let  him  read  (that  pro- 
hibition he  would  not  find  very  hard)  nor 
talk  to  any  one;  so  that  he,  with  all  his  treas- 
ures of  vitality,  might  be  mine  alone.  And 
occasionally  I  should  enter  the  cage. 

I  should  then  be  far  more  spiritually  dis- 
posed than  I  am  now.  At  present,  my  splen- 
did, primitive,  untamed  beast  is  hungry  and 


Ice-Plains  29 

howling,  and  mars  the  divine  symphony  I 
listen  to  in  my  dreams  of  light. 

I  should  appease  it,  and  go  out  to  walk  in 
my  sacred  grove,  along  the  margin  of  the 
dark  abysmal  lake  which  is  in  my  soul. 

And  I  should  willingly  have  Roslawski  to 
walk  with  me  there! 

Janusz  has  asked  me  if  I  would  consent 
to  become  his  wife. 

"If  only  for  a  month  or  two,  I  would  with 
pleasure,"  was  my  truthful  reply,  which  I 
afterwards  turned  into  a  jest:  not  a  nice  one, 
I  must  say. 

Janusz  darted  one  or  two  angry  looks  at  me, 
and  gave  vent  to  this  aphorism:  "There  are 
things  one  should  never  jest  about" 

Most  certainly  he  is  right.  And  all  this 
begins  to  worry  me  just  a  little. 

I  might  perhaps  fancy  myself  playing  the 
part  of  his  seductress;  of  his  wife,  never. 
And  what  to  do  with  him  now,  I  can't  tell. 

I  should  like  to  go  away  now.  Oh,  why 
has  all  this  come  about  so  suddenly? 

Out  boating  late  in  the  evening,  on  the 
great  pond  beyond  the  park. 


30  Kobiety 

I  have  consented  to  come  here,  for  I  am  so 
wretched,  I  want  to  die.  And  I  know  that 
Janusz,  whom  I  have  been  tormenting  all  day 
long,  can  no  longer  control  himself. 

His  nerves  are  racked  to  the  very  utmost; 
it  is  my  doing.  He  clutches  me  by  the  shoul- 
ders and  holds  me  down  to  the  side  of  the  boat 
with  an  iron  grip.  To  get  the  better  of  his 
mad  fit,  I  keep  myself  very  passive  and  cool. 

"Hear  me,  Janka!"  he  growls  between  his 
teeth,  his  face  close  to  mine,  "you!  listen:  I 
am  speaking  for  the  last  time.  Say  Yes!" 

I  could  disarm  him  with  a  single  cry  of 
pain  or  fear:  but  I  remain  mute.  I  must 
have  strong  sensations  to-night. 

"I'll  kill— I'll  kill  you!  Do  you  hear?  I 
hate  you  as  much  as  I  love  you,  and  more. 
Speak  instantly — speak!" 

His  rage  is  suffocating  him;  the  words  stick 
in  his  throat.  His  knee  is  pressed  hard  upon 
my  bosom;  his  nails  dig  deep  into  my  flesh. 
With  all  my  strength  I  stifle  a  groan,  and 
wait.  The  boat  is  careening  over  more  and 
more,  and  begins  to  be  water-logged. 

"I  shall  drown  you!  See,  the  boat  is  about 
to  go  down!  Say  Yes!" 

Quietly,  silently,  I  look  into  his  wild  burn- 


Ice-Plains  31 

ing  eyes,  of  which  the  whites  gleam  through 
the  darkness  and  fascinate  me. 

For  an  instant  I  have  a  desire  to  close  my 
eyelids  and  disappear,  sinking  noiselessly 
into  the  dark  water.  My  eyes  nevertheless  in- 
stinctively encounter  his. 

Suddenly  I  feel  that  the  grip  of  his 
clenched  hands  is  growing  weaker. 

Now  sure  of  victory,  I  whisper,  "No!"  with 
a  smile. 

Janusz,  uttering  a  cry  of  pain,  falls  back 
into  the  boat.  He  presses  his  forehead  hard 
against  my  feet  which  he  covers  with  kisses, 
and  is  swept  by  a  storm  of  convulsive  sobs. 
The  boat  recovers  her  balance,  and  rocks  up 
and  down  violently. 

But  I  am  the  reverse  of  elated  by  my  vic- 
tory.  For  now  I  can  no  longer  believe  in  the 
omnipotence  of  mere  physical  strength,  which 
has  just  shown  itself  less  mighty  than  the 
power  of  Mind. 

Had  Janusz  continued  to  grapple  with  me 
thus  for  a  few  seconds  more,  I  think  I  might 
have  given  way  to  him.  And  now  I  envy  him 
the  incomparable  joy  of  acknowledging  my 
predominance. 

The  warrior  does  not  delight  in  triumphing 


32  Kobiety 

over  one  less  strong,  but  in  confessing  the 
power  of  him  that  has  been  found  stronger, 
and  by  whom  he  has  been  overcome. 
—  Over  this  writhing  figure,  shaken  with  sobs 
that  grow  fainter  and  fainter  with  fatigue,  I 
look  out  far  into  the  night.  No  moon,  not  a 
star.  And  the  rushes  along  the  shore  keep  up 
an  incessant  rustling. 

And  the  dark  lake,  my  soul,  is  looking  up 
with  unseeing  eyes  to  the  dark  sky. 

All  around  is  dead:  no  life  anywhere. 
Nothing  remains  but  my  loneliness — the  un- 
bounded loneliness  of  my  strength,  self-cen- 
tred and  unparalleled. 

Never  yet  have  I  felt  my  power  so 
strongly,  and  never  yet  has  it  made  me  so  sad. 

The  black  sky  bends  its  lowering  vault 
above  me;  under  its  clouds  the  black  pond 
lifts  up  swelling  waves.  Between  the  Infinite 
and  my  soul,  there  is  nowhere  any  room  for 
strength. 

Oh,  "I  am  so  weary,  weary  of  these 
heights!"  How  I  desire  to  meet  with  a  force 
able  to  subdue  mine! 

"Pray,  Janusz,  pray  get  up,"  I  say,  gently 
stroking  his  hair;  "I  beg  you,  rise;  it  must 
be  very  late.  Where  are  the  oars?" 


Ice-Plains  33 

I  am  lying  in  the  hollow  between  two  rows 
of  graves,  breathing  the  perfume  of  the  white 
forest  gilliflowers,  abloom  in  the  "Kirkut," 
and  thinking  of  life — of  this  most  admirable 
and  most  beautiful  marvel,  life.  I  am  ex- 
plaining to  Martha  how  my  worship  of  life  is 
really  the  outcome  of  resignation. 

"But  in  me  resignation  has  taken  a  form 
that  it  has  not  in  you.  'If  I  cannot  have  all, 
I  refuse  to  have  anything;'  such  is  the  creed 
of  despairing  pride,  held  by  slaves  and 
wretched  men.  My  belief  in  Azoism  is  noth- 
ing but  the  creed  of  a  proud  woman,  who  is 
reconciled  to  her  slavery,  and  will  take  up  no 
spurious  imitations  of  freedom.  Such  a  with- 
drawal from  the  vortex  we  live  in,  enabling 
me  to  look  on  all  things  as  Garborg  does, 
from  above  them,  and  with  a  smile  of  digni- 
fied amenity — this  is  what  I  love.  It  often 
seems  to  me,  so  little  I  feel  adapted  for  my 
life  on  earth,  that  I  have  somehow  wandered 
hither  by  a  mischance,  a  blunder." 

"It  is  well,"  says  Martha.  "Adaptation  to 
/  environment  is  of  avail  only  to  brute  animals: 
I  man  can  make  his  own  world  by  viewing  it 
V  in  his  own  special  way. 

"I,"  she  goes  on  to  say  sadly,  "believe  in 


34  Kobiety 

nothing.  And  yet  women  in  general  are  in- 
clined to  have  faith  in  an  existence  after 
death.  It  is  simply  an  outcome  of  sympathy 
with  suffering,  and  of  an  instinct  of  justice. 
You  know  how  the  thought  of  useless  suffer- 
ing in  nature  makes  me  beside  myself.  Think 
of  all  those  silent  agonies  which  never  will  be 
known;  of  those  tortures  endured  throughout 
the  world  by  multitudes  that  leave  no  trace 
behind  them.  .  .  .  When  but  a  little  boy, 
Janusz  once  focussed  the  sun's  rays  on  a  little 
insect  he  had  fastened  by  its  wing,  and  which 
was  writhing  in  impotent  throes.  I  can  still 
see  those  poor  limbs,  red  in  the  glow,  quiver- 
ing in  excruciating  pain,  until  I  snatched  the 
lens  away  from  Janusz,  and  set  the  half- 
roasted  creature  free.  .  .  .  Those  were  its 
last  impressions  of  life:  after  them  came 
—Nothingness!  I  can  see  all  the  tiny  invisi- 
ble beings  that  I  slay  by  hundreds  in  my  daily 
walks,  trampling  them  down  in  the  long  grass 
or  under  the  pine-needles,  and  unwittingly 
leaving  them  to  expire  in  the  most  dreadful 
torments,  perhaps  drawn  out  for  many  an 
hour.  ...  I  know,  too,  of  the  pain  which 
fishes  undergo,  often  kept  living  in  the  air 
for  whole  days,  and  seen  to  move  convul- 


Ice-Plains  35 

sively,  even  when  on  the  fire.  .  .  .  All  this 
pain,  and  nothing  to  justify,  nothing  to  com- 
pensate it!  This  I  know;  for  beyond  death 
there  is  nothing!" 

"But  did  it  never  strike  you  that,  if  there 
is  nothing  beyond  death,  it  is  impossible  for 
/  nothingness  to  be  there?" 

She  looks  at  me  inquiringly. 

"The  ideas  of  justice,  of  vengeance,  of  com- 
pensation, are  purely  of  this  earth,  though 
they  once  formed  a  religious  ideal  in  the  wor- 
ship of  Jehovah.  I  put  them  in  the  same 
category  as  the  concept  of  mercy,  now  prevail- 
ing amongst  Christians.  Some  other  idea 
will  spring  up  later,  equally  foreign  to  that 
of  existence  beyond  the  grave." 

"Well,  and  what  do  you  infer  from  that?" 

"My  belief  is,  that  the  phenomenon  called 
death  consists  in  our  losing  all  sensations, 
'categories,'  concepts  and  all  projections  (so 
to  speak)  of  this  our  world;  and  in  our  rind- 
ing other  sensations  in  the  next.  Perhaps  not 
even  that.  For  in  the  next  world,  just  as  there 
will  be  no  idea  of  justice,  so  there  may  be 
none  of  sensations.  Do  you  follow  me?" 

"So  you  think  you  shall  continue  to  exist 
then?" 


36  Kobiety 

"I  cannot  say — I  cannot  say." 

For  a  few  minutes  I  listen  to  the  undertone 
of  the  pine-trees,  sounding  far  above  us  in  the 
sky. 

"You  see,"  I  continue,  "there,  it  may  well 
be,  we  shall  have  no  idea  of  an  Ego  which 
excludes  and  contradicts  the  Non-Ego.  The 
distinction  between  them  has  arisen  from  the 
fact  of  our  existence  upon  earth:  it  is  a  form 
into  which  we  mould  our  impressions;  some- 
thing purely  accidental,  depending  upon  the 
quality  and  mechanism  of  the  brain.  .  .  . 
There,  too,  the  idea  of  Time  may  be  wanting; 
also  that  of  Space.  Of  course,  from  our  earth- 
ly point  of  view,  it  is  nonsense  to  say  that  the 
world  is  boundless :  that  which  the  brain  calls 
'the  Infinite'  cannot  be  represented  in  im- 
agination as  space.  Truly,  there  are  times 
when  I  simply  feel  admiration  for  a  God  who 
has  created  so  great  and  endlessly  complicated 
a  scheme  of  beings." 

Martha's  disappointment  is  plain  to  per- 
ceive. 

"So  then  you  believe  in  God?" 

"I  do  not  know,  and  do  not  trouble  about 
it.  It  is  not  likely  the  ideas  of  creation  out 
of  nothing,  of  sovereignty  as  opposed  to  sub- 


Ice-Plains  37 

jection,  of  volition  as  opposed  to  passiveness, 
have  any  counterpart  out  of  our  minds.  .  .  . 
Notice,  Martha,  that  in  my  view  the  expres- 
sion, 'Transcendental  Being,'  implies  a  con- 
tradiction. Our  very  idea  of  Being  is  a  mere 
'  outcome  of  experience:  and  I  go  so  far  be- 
yond Nature,  I  leap  so  completely  out  of  my 
human  skin,  that  I  can  force  myself  to  the 
contemplation  of  an  unimaginable  world,  in 
which  there  is  no  contradiction  between  Being 
and  Non-Being.  .  .  . 

"Therefore,  I  do  not  trouble  whether  I 
shall  in  that  world  be  myself  or  not  myself: 
nor  even  whether  I  shall  be  or  not  be.  .  .  ." 

She  gazes  at  me,  her  eyes  wide  open,  and 
says  under  her  breath: 

"Yes,  I  see." 

"And,  do  you  know,  the  capacity  of  thus 
abstracting  one's  thought  itself  from  its  out- 
ward form,  of  looking  upon  the  universe  and 
one's  very  thought  from  such  a  standpoint, 
sets  one  on  heights  incomprehensibly  sublime, 
and  gives  the  purest,  the  most  unearthly 
delight." 

.  .  .  There  is  a  black  cat  here,  with 
eyes  like  emeralds;  it  ranges  noiselessly 
amongst  the  rows  of  gravestones.  A  singu- 


38  Kobiety 

larly  sociable  creature;  it  follows  us  every- 
where in  our  walks,  like  a  dog.  .  .  .  When 
I  look  at  it,  I  cannot  help  believing  in 
Metempsychosis:  there  must  dwell  within 
this  cat  some  very  refined  aristocratic  soul,  one 
that  looks  upon  everything  with  supreme 
scepticism. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Martha?" 

"Nothing.  I  have  only  dropped  a  hairpin." 

A  tortoise-shell  pin  has  fallen  out  of  her 
thick  black  tresses,  and  dropped  on  to  the 
earth  with  a  faint  sound. 

Martha  is  just  now  in  a  very  lofty  mood. 
This  real  world  of  ours  strikes  her  as  a  con- 
trast, ridiculous  in  its  littleness,  to  the  world 
we  are  speaking  of.     So  she  does  not  wish 
me  to  pick  up  that  pin,  though  it  has  dropped 
quite  close  to  me  on  the  heather.     To  my 
mind    this    is    too    high-flown,    too    girlish. 
After  all,  the  realities  of  life  are  paramount^ 
and  we  ought  to  have  so  much  intellectual  cul-  / 
ture  as  never  to  forget  it. 

Wherefore  I  give  her  the  pin,  smiling  very 
sarcastically. 

"After  all,"  I  conclude,  rising  from  the 
hollow  ridge  and  preparing  to  walk  home, 
"I  quite  understand  that  what  I  have  said 


Ice-Plains  39 

amounts  to  the  same  as  belief  in  nothing.  It 
is  all  the  same  to  me  whether  I  shall  cease 
to  be  after  death,  or  be  transferred  to  a  world 
wherein  there  is  no  idea  of  being,  or  of  any 
Ego,  conditioning  my  self-consciousness.  I 
understand,  too,  that  a  world  in  which  Being 
does  not  contradict  Non-Being,  is  to  our 
minds  equivalent  to  no  world  at  all.  So  that 
my  faith  is  similar  to  your  unfaith,  but  in- 
ferred and  formulated  otherwise." 

Janusz  is  very  humble  and  wretched  now. 
Sometimes,  when  we  sit  long  together  of  an 
evening,  he  will  fall  asleep  with  his  head  in 
my  lap,  worn  out  with  nervous  exhaustion. 
And  then  I  am  face  to  face  with  something 
very  strange. 

I  feel  a  mysterious  dread  of  the  torment  of 
an  everlasting  vigil,  together  with  a  sense  of 
responsibility  beyond  my  strength.  Yet  I  do 
not  wake  him,  although  I  am  shuddering  with 
dread;  I  will  not  let  him  know  that  I  am 
afraid  I  .  .  .  There  are  certain  things  one 
should  not  speak  about  to  children.  .  .  . 
That  I  love  solitude  when  alone,  but  that  the 
feeling  of  solitude  when  some  one  is  by  me, 
fills  me  with  unspeakable  dread,  for  then  I 


40  Kobiety 

hear  my  soul  uttering  her  triumphant  laugh: 
this  I  would  never  confess  to  him. 

Vigorous  I  am,  and  able  to  struggle  for  a 
long  time.  But  even  for  warriors  there  come 
moments  when  they  trustfully  lay  their  tired 
heads  on  some  one's  lap;  when  they  feel  se- 
cure in  the  knowledge  of  some  one  above 
them,  watching  over  them,  standing  between 
them  and  their  foes,  between  them  and  the 
Infinite,  the  Unknown. 

Is  there  any  man  in  the  world  who  could 
thus  lull  my  watchfulness  to  sleep?  There  is 
one,  only  one.  But  the  price  I  should  pay 
would  be  all  that  makes  life  charming. 

When  Janusz  is  sleeping  on  my  lap,  I  then 
invariably  think  of — Roslawski. 

As  a  rule,  it  is  from  a  novelist's  or  an  art- 
ist's standpoint — from  without  and  objec- 
tively— that  I  view  whatever  happens  in  my 
life;  consciously  throwing  all  my  impressions 
into  the  form  of  sentences,  rounded  and  com- 
plete, often  affected  and  unnatural;  and  in 
everything  I  say,  think,  or  do,  seeking  for 
dramatic,  literary,  or  picturesque  effects. 
This  peculiarity  I  hold  for  one  of  the  tragic 


Ice-Plains  41 

sides  of  my  life,  since  it  almost  entirely  robs 
my  impressions  of  their  directness. 

People  sometimes  blame  me  for  being  man- 
nered, for  attitudinizing,  for  performing 
everything  with  artifice,  whether  I  make  a 
bow  or  do  my  hair.  And  I  fully  admit  they 
are  right.  But  then,  artificiality  comes  natu- 
rally to  me.  Every  motion,  every  smile  of 
mine  is  present  to  me  before  it  is  elicited:  it 
is  scrutinized  and  judged  by  me,  as  though 
I  were  some  one  else.  For  me,  there  is  no 
present;  I  look  at  all  things  from  out  of  the 
Future:  there  are  no  involuntary  bursts  of 
thought,  no  inarticulate  words  or  mechanical 
gestures  for  me.  And  should  I  try  to  behave 
with  apparent  artlessness,  I  should  then  be 
artificial  twice  over. 

This  afternoon  a  carriage,  covered  with 
mud,  and  drawn  by  a  couple  of  splendid 
sorrel  horses,  pulls  up  in  front  of  our  terrace. 
Imszanski  jumps  out,  throwing  the  reins  to 
the  groom,  who  sits  behind.  Janusz  wel- 
comes him,  and  he  slowly  comes  up  the  steps. 
He  has  driven  thirty-five  miles,  but  his  im- 
passive features  bear  not  the  slightest  trace 
of  fatigue. 


42  Kobiety 

He  improves  upon  acquaintance.  Beyond 
all  doubt,  he  is  the  handsomest  man  I  know: 
a  great  point  in  his  favour.  His  movements, 
characterized  by  a  certain  graceful  languor, 
betray  his  noble  descent;  in  his  bright  eyes 
there  is  to  be  seen  continual  concentrated 
thought  and  tranquil,  half-forgotten  sorrow. 
He  has  every  accomplishment,  talks  interest- 
ingly, elegantly,  with  literary  turns  and  ex- 
pressions; he  has  at  his  call  every  variety  of 
smile  but  never  laughs  outright.  Considerate 
restraint  is  his  speciality. 

His  first  words  on  entering  are :  "My  sister 
sends  you  her  greetings:  she  wanted  to  come 
with  me,  but  I  was  afraid  to  take  her.  It  is  so 
long  a  journey,  and  the  roads  are  in  so  bad  a 
state  now." 

He  pays  court  both  to  Martha  and  to  my- 
self with  equal  politeness;  with  her  he  is 
more  serious,  with  me  more  gallant.  Which 
is  the  proper  thing,  as  I  am  a  visitor  in  the 
neighbourhood. 

I  am  all  but  enchanted,  and  my  eyes  are 
continually  fixed  on  him.  And  yet  at  the 
same  time  I  know  that  this  paragon  of  a  man 
could  never  succeed  in  winning  my  love. 
From  a  physical  point  of  view,  I  care  even 


Ice-Plains  43 

less  for  him  than  for  Roslawski.  This,  I  sup- 
pose, is  precisely  on  account  of  his  marvellous 
beauty,  which  may  draw  off  my  attention 
from  him  as  a  man  and  an  intelligent  being. 
I  could  gaze  with  just  as  much  enthusiasm 
on  his  portrait. 

We  go  out  to  inspect  some  new  kinds  of 
ornamental  shrubs  which  Martha  has  re- 
cently had  planted  in  the  park.  Janusz  walks 
with  me;  Imszanski  with  Martha,  a  few 
paces  before  us. 

These  two  make  a  pretty  picture,  on  which 
I  like  to  gaze.  In  this  grand  old  park,  they 
remind  me  of  the  days  of  yore,  and  the 
knights  and  their  lady-loves.  Martha,  I  re- 
mark, has  a  style  and  breeding  that  I  lack. 
To  help  her  over  a  plash  of  water,  Imszanski 
gives  her  his  hand.  She  gathers  up  her  dress, 
just  revealing  her  neat  and  shapely  ankles. 
The  pair  are  just  like  dancers  in  a  minuet, 
and  so  handsome  that  I  cannot  find  it  in  my 
heart  to  envy  them. 

Janusz  walks  at  my  side  like  a  shadow,  and 
follows  my  glances  with  eyes  ablaze. 

"A  fine  man,  Imszanski:  you  like  him, 
don't  you?"  he  asks.  "But,"  he  goes  on  to 
say,  "I  don't  advise  you  to  try  your  hand  on 


44  Kobiety 

him:  he  is  another's.  Has  loved  long  and 
hopelessly." 

"Has  he?" 

"When  in  Warsaw,  he  went  the  length  of 
attempting  suicide — unsuccessfully,  I  need 
not  say." 

"But  this  love  of  his,  is  it  not  only  hope- 
less, but  unrequited  too?" 

"Well,  he  proposed — and  was  refused. 
But  that's  no  wonder.  Such  a  man  should 
never  marry;  a  whole  seraglio  would  not  be 
enough  for  him." 

"H'm,  yes;  that  would  be  quite  in  his  line. 
Who  is  the  girl?  Does  she  live  near?" 

"Yes,  she  does." 

"And  who  may  she  be?  Please  tell  me. 
Was  she  at  the  Sedniewski  party?" 

"Don't  ask;  I  must  not  tell.  It  has  been 
kept  secret." 

"But  did  anybody  confide  in  you?" 

"Why,  no." 

"Then  I  have  as  much  right  to  know  as  you 
have.  I  am  awfully  curious,  and  wonder  at 
the  girl's  taste.  ...  Do  I  know  her?" 

He  holds  out  for  some  time,  but  in  the  end 
I  disarm  him:  though  in  the  way  I  dis- 
like most  and  very  seldom  employ,  ...  by 


Ice-Plains  45 

wheedling  and  coaxing  him.  The  secret  shall 
go  down  to  the  grave  with  me,  I  promise  him. 
He  hesitates  awhile;  then  says  in  an  under- 
tone: 

"Martha." 

I  do  my  best  to  conceai  my  unbounded  as- 
tonishment under  some  commonplace  expres- 
sions of  faint  surprise.  I  obviously  have  not 
the  slightest  intention  to  keep  my  word:  I 
will  ask  Martha  about  the  whole  business. 
Can  she  possibly  not  be  in  love  with  such  a 
Phoenix?  Can  she  too  have  found  him  unde- 
sirable because  of  that  beauty  of  his? 

During  supper  I  watch  her  closely,  and 
see  in  her  face  that  very  same  pallor,  that 
very  look  of  weariness  and  constraint  that 
she  was  wearing  in  Topolow.  No,  his  love 
is  certainly  not  unrequited. 

I  have  no  fondness,  and  consequently  no 
fellow-feeling,  for  the  girl:  but  now  I  am 
more  interested  than  before  in  her  theory  of 
"Azoism."  I  formerly  thought  she  had 
taken  it  up  as  an  apology  for  her  life;  now  I 
see  that  her  life  itself  compels  her  to 
profess  it. 

Imszanski  himself  is  always  the  same, 
courteous  and  languidly  good-humoured. 


46  Kobiety 

He  is  talking  with  Martha's  grandfather 
about  this  year's  crops,  and  looking  quite  in- 
terested in  the  subject. 

It  is  a  cool  windy  autumn  day.  Clouds  are 
floating  close  to  the  earth,  rain  is  in  the  air, 
and  no  birds  are  seen.  Along  the  woods 
stretch  the  fields,  either  already  harrowed,  or 
covered  with  dingy  whitish  stubble.  Some- 
thing has  gone  out  of  my  life  forever:  I  can- 
not get  rid  of  the  thought. 

We  three  are  riding  together  over  the  deso- 
late plain.  Janusz  rides  in  front  of  us,  play- 
ing acrobatic  tricks  on  horseback,  and  really 
performing  wonderful  feats  of  agility. 

But  it  is  now  ebb-tide  with  me.  Those 
tight  trousers,  those  raw  leather  boots  of  his 
— I  hate  them,  and  scorn  myself  for  having 
let  that  sort  of  thing  ever  make  any  impres- 
sion on  me;  assuredly  there  is  nothing  in  all 
this  that  is  worthy  of  scorn. 

Autumn  has  come.    That  is  all. 

We  come  abreast  upon  the  muddy  high- 
way, all  three  strangely  sick  at  heart.  In  si- 
lence we  ride  on. 

Latterly  Janusz  has  altered  very  much. 
His  face  is  pale;  it  is  the  face  of  a  man  lost 


Ice-Plains  47 

in  troubled  thought.  When  we  are  by  our- 
selves, he  scarcely  ever  raises  his  eyes  to 
mine;  and  his  outbursts  of  energy  resemble 
the  frenzy  of  delirium.  After  the  equestrian 
evolutions  just  performed,  he  looks  wearied 
and  gloomy,  and  his  lips  are  closed  fast  as  he 
rides. 

Why  is  each  of  us  thus?  I  alone  can  tell. 
Because  Martha  is  thinking  of  Imszanski,  and 
Janusz  of  me,  and  I  am  thinking  of  Roslaw- 
ski.  It  is  just  like  a  novel :  each  of  us  as  re- 
mote as  one  star  is  from  another. 

I  got  a  post-card  from  Obojanski  yester- 
day, saying  he  had  come  back;  so  I  shall  have 
to  be  off  in  four  days.  I  must  then  see  Ros- 
lawski,  who  has  no  doubt  returned  to  Warsaw 
by  now.  A  fever  of  impatience  possesses  me. 

On  my  return,  I  lie  down  on  the  drawing- 
room  sofa,  still  in  my  riding-habit. 

Martha,  as  usual,  is  journeying  from  pan- 
try to  cellar,  Janusz  has  gone  to  dress  for  sup- 
per; "Grandfather"  is  probably  asleep  in 
some  nook.  I  feel  maddened  with  impatience 
at  the  thought  of  seeing  Him  again.  I  tear 
my  hair,  sobbing  noiselessly  and  without 
tears. 

My  misery  is  at  its  height.    And  now,  be- 


48  Kobiety 

sides,  I  feel  this :  that  I  am  sorry  to  go  away 
— sorry  for  Janusz.  Something  there  is 
within  me,  tearing  at  my  soul — tearing  it  to 
bits,  to  shreds,  to  tatters. 

I  hear  Janusz  coming,  take  up  an  easy  re- 
cumbent attitude,  without  rising  from  the 
sofa,  and  arrange  my  hair. 

"What!  you  here  already?"  I  remark  in  a 
peevishly  flippant  tone  of  inquiry. 

He  does  not  reply,  but  draws  near  with 
noiseless  reverent  steps,  in  an  attitude  of  su- 
preme worship,  such  as  an  idolator  may  pay 
to  the  idol  he  distractedly  adores.  Kneeling 
down  before  me,  he  gently  takes  my  hands  and 
presses  them  to  his  brow.  I  do  not  with- 
draw them.  I  lean  forwards  instinctively. 

"Janka,  listen,"  he  says  tenderly,  in  a  voice 
that  trembles  with  suppressed  emotion;  "say 
that  you  will  be  my  wife;  say  so,  my  dear. 
.  .  .  You  know  what  you  have  made  of 
me.  .  .  .  You  laughed  at  me  for  my  so- 
ber-mindedness, my  shallow  outlook  upon 
life,  my  thoughtless  joie  de  vivre.  Now  I  am 
quite  different.  .  .  .  Now  I  am  like  you, 
and  like  the  rest  of  your  set.  .  .  .  Could 
I  ever,  in  the  old  days,  have  thought  it  possi- 
ble that  I  should  become  like  a  child — cry- 


Ice-Plains  49 

ing  my  eyes  out  at  the  thought  of  your  going 
away,  Janka?  I  have  nothing  in  the  world 
to  console  me  but  you  .  .  .  Janka,  since 
you  told  me  you  were  sorry  for  the  hares  I 
had  killed,  I  have  not  gone  out  shooting  any 
more.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  shall  not  struggle  with 
you,  I  should  not  get  the  mastery;  but  as  your 
slave,  I  beg  you,  I  entreat  you,  be  my  wife! 
Oh,  my  adorable  lady,  my  most  sweet  one,  say 
but  that  you  will!  You  will  be  happy;  you 
will  see  me  do  everything,  everything  to 
please  you.  .  .  .  You  will  live  like  a  princess. 
...  If  you  will  not  give  me  this  assurance, 
I  shall  go  to  ruin,  indeed  I  shall.  Janka,  I 
will  leave  the  University  without  taking  my 
degree.  ...  I  will  follow  you  everywhere  on 
earth.  Martha,  too;  does  she  not  love  you? 
And  does  it  matter  to  you  if  you  say  Yes  now? 
Nothing  hinders  you  from  saying  the  word; 
I  even  think  you  love  me  just  a  little.  .  .  . 
Oh,  Janka,  Janka!" 

He  ends  with  a  burst  of  tears.  My  head 
bends  down  to  his,  and  we  both  weep  to- 
gether. In  turns  I  am  rent  by  compassion  for 
him  and  by  my  longing  for  Roslawski.  I  kiss 
his  black  silky  curls,  and  we  cry  like  children. 


50  Kobiety 

Finally  we  agree  that  I  shall  go  to  Warsaw 
"to  take  counsel  with  my  family  and  with 
my  own  heart" ;  and  I  am  to  give  him  a  defi- 
nite answer  in  a  month's  time. 

By  then  I  shall  surely  have  seen  Roslawski 
— and  everything  will  have  been  settled:  for 
life  or  for  death. 

Every  morning,  the  trees  in  the  park  are 
now  white  with  hoarfrost,  and  we  find  the 
threshing-floor  in  the  barn  covered  with 
many  a  steel-blue  swallow,  lying  frozen  to 
death.  The  stoves  are  heated,  the  windows 
hermetically  closed  (for  the  time  being),  and, 
though  autumn  has  but  just  commenced,  we 
are  in  winter  quarters  already. 

In  the  calm  white  country  house,  sleep 
reigns  supreme. 

The  wild  wind  howls  through  the  sombre 
shrubberies,  and  sweeps  showers  of  drifting 
leaves,  green  but  frost-bitten,  along  the  walls 
of  the  park.  Through  the  windows  I  look 
out  into  the  cold  bleak  night,  a  night  of  deso- 
lation and  evil  omen:  such  a  night  as  one 
might  expect  to  bring  us  mysterious  half- 
frozen  travellers  who  have  lost  their  way; 
and  on  this  very  night  they  should  come 


Ice-Plains  51 

knocking  at  the  door.  The  old,  faithful,  su- 
perstitious servants  should  mutter  the  say- 
ing: "Some  one  has  hanged  himself,  the 
wind  is  so  high,"  and  the  dogs  should  howl 
together  mournfully. 

There  is  no  light  save  in  one  window,  by 
which,  through  the  broad  chinks  in  the  shut- 
ters, its  bright  streaks  filter  out  into  the  park. 
The  maids  are  there,  keeping  vigil  as  usual; 
Janusz  and  the  old  man  have  gone  to  bed  and 
have  long  been  asleep. 

Around  there  breathes  that  stillness  and 
quiet  sense  of  security  which  a  winter  night  is 
wont  to  bring  with  it — an  atmosphere  of 
repose. 

I  am  kneeling  by  the  fire,  in  a  plain  dress- 
ing-gown, with  my  hands  clasped  behind  my 
head,  and  my  eyes  fixed  upon  the  flames. 
Flashes  of  red  light  up  my  dark  face  and  my 
chestnut  hair.  Now  and  then  I  put  big  logs 
on  the  fire  from  the  heap  close  at  hand;  I 
like  to  resemble  a  vestal  virgin. 

Martha,  partly  undressed  and  without  her 
corset,  lies  dejectedly  smoking  a  cigarette  on 
a  rose-coloured  couch,  not  looking  in  my 
direction. 

She  absent-mindedly  strokes  a  cat,  which 


52  Kobiety 

lies  close  to  her  and  purrs  loudly,  pretending 
to  be  pleased  but  cross  in  fact,  because  she 
wants  to  sleep,  and  Martha  prevents  her. 

"I  shall  be  so  bored  when  you  leave  us, 
Janka,"  she  says.  "There  will  be  a  sad  void 
all  over  the  place." 

"Then  come  with  me  to  Warsaw." 

"Somebody  must  remain  to  keep  house  at 
Klosow;  besides,  Grandfather  cannot  be  left 
alone.  I  shall  not  be  free  till  after  a  year's 
time,  when  Janusz  has  finished  his  course  of 
agronomy." 

"Do  you  know,  Martha,  you  remind  me  of 
a  heroine  in  an  old-fashioned  novel  and  I 
don't  care  for  variety.  You  are  too  goody- 
goody.  Such  a  pity  as  it  is  to  waste  a  year 
of  one's  youth.  .  .  .  You  may  quite  well 
leave  everything  to  the  steward's  care.  .  .  . 
Remember,  you  will  soon  be  twenty-five,  and 
life. never  goes  back." 

"But  I  am  glad — how  glad! — that  it  does 
not." 

"That's  a  pose,  or  a  mere  high-flown  mood. 
You  love  life  in  spite  of  all." 

Turning  towards  her,  I  meet  her  earnest 
gaze — calm,  and  yet,  oh!  how  mournful! 

"I  hate  life,  Janka!"  she  replies. 


Ice-Plains  53 

Silence  follows.  The  cat  leaps  from  off  the 
couch,  stretches  herself,  and  makes  for  the 
fireplace  with  leisurely  velvet  tread.  She 
rubs  herself  against  me,  lies  down  in  the  full 
glare  of  the  hearth,  and  instantly  falls  asleep. 

"Once,"  Martha  continues,  "I  saw  them 
kill  a  black  sheep,  as  I  had  told  them  to  do. 
A  clean-shaven  old  farm-labourer  first  tied  its 
legs,  and  then  sharpened  his  knife  on  a  whet- 
stone for  a  long  time.  Finally,  he  turned  its 
beautiful  tapering  head  on  one  side,  and  de- 
liberately, skilfully,  drew  the  knife  back- 
wards and  forwards  across  its  throat.  And 
the  poor  animal  did  not  so  much  as  shrink: 
never  did  it  once  bleat,  or  show  the  least  sign 
of  reluctance.  I  wanted  to  run  away,  or  cover 
my  eyes,  or  at  least  turn  from  the  sight:  but 
I  forced  myself  to  undergo  that  internal 
agony,  in  order  to  atone  for  the  quiet  death  of 
that  meek,  harmless  beast.  I  asked  the  la- 
bourer afterwards  whether  he  was  not  sorry 
for  killing  it.  He  answered  me:  'Why 
should  I  be?  It  was  my  lady's  order.  I 
would  cut  a  man's  throat  for  her,  if  she  told 
me  to.' 

"Once  my  threshing-machine  killed  a  man. 
Corn  had  been  stolen,  and  I  had  to  watch  the 


54  Kobiety 

men  by  myself,  the  steward  being  away  at 
the  time.  They  had  stolen  it,  because  I 
had  more  than  they.  ...  I  remember  the 
man  leaning  forwards  incautiously — a  horri- 
ble cry — a  dull  grinding  sound — and  a  sud- 
den silence.  The  machine  had  stopped;  out 
of  it  they  took  only  a  bleeding  mass.  I  made 
the  dead  man's  widow  a  life-pension,  and  saw 
to  the  bringing-up  of  the  children.  And  be- 
cause of  that,  they  call  me  benefactress  and 
angel ! 

"Or  again.  A  woman  of  seventeen  died  in 
child-bed.  Three  days  and  three  nights  she 
lay  howling  in  the  farm-servants'  quarters, 
howling  like  a  wounded  beast,  so  that  I  could 
hear  her  even  in  my  own  room.  Well,  she 
died  at  last;  but  the  boy  survived.  He  is  now 
three  years  old,  he  laughs  in  the  sunshine,  cuts 
earthworms  to  pieces  for  a  pastime,  and  tears 
off  cockchafers'  legs. 

"Kosa,  a  peasant  here,  had  a  son  who  was 
dying  slowly  of  consumption.  The  priest  was 
sent  for,  and  brought  him  the  last  sacraments. 
Outside  the  hut,  he  had  to  bargain  with  Kosa 
about  the  burial  fees. 

"Once,  in  our  pond,  the  loathsome  swollen 
corpse  of  a  new-born  child  came  floating  to 


Ice-Plains  55 

the  surface.  What  harm  had  it  ever  done? 
Possibly  it  was  put  to  death  because  its  life 
of  a  day  or  two  had  made  it  the  instrument  of 
some  wrong  done! 

"Janka,  I  hate  life!" 

"Listen,"  I  say,  casting  my  eyes  down.  "I 
— I  don't  know  how  to  begin ;  that  is,  I  wanted 
to  tell  you  that  it  may  be  I  am  leaving  you 
only  for  a  short  time.  In  a  few  weeks,  I  shall 
perhaps  be  here  again." 

"I  wish  you  would,"  she  replies.  "Janusz 
is  in  a  pitiful  state." 

Another  pause  ensues.  I  am  thinking  how 
far  indeed  I  am  from  such  a  wish;  and  I  feel 
something  rising  in  my  throat.  Suddenly  I 
decide  to  speak  now. 

"Martha,"  I  say,  "tell  me  the  reason  why 
you  refused  Imszanski."  She  starts,  and 
stares  at  me  with  eyes  like  a  frightened  deer's. 

"Fear  nothing,"  I  say,  reassuringly.  "You 
must  not  think  I  shall  inflict  compassion  on 
you;  I  am  only  calmly  and  objectively  inter- 
ested. Tell  me:  can  you  possibly  not  be  in 
love  with  so  amazingly  handsome  a  man?" 

She  is  silent  a  while,  debating  with  herself; 
and  then: 


56  Kobiety 

"Yes,  I  was  in  love  with  him,"  she  replies, 
in  a  calm  low  voice. 

"Well,  and  have  you  sacrificed  your  hap- 
piness to  that  abstract  theory  of  yours?" 

Another  pause. 

"Not  exactly.  .  .  .  The  fact  is  that  I  sim- 
ply could  not  bear  to  think  I  had  not  been  his 
only  love." 

There  she  stops,  but  I  feel  she  is  only  wait- 
ing for  me  to  question  her  further:  this  is 
the  moment  when  she  must  lay  bare  to  me 
what  she  has  hitherto,  with  her  wonted  se- 
cretiveness,  concealed  from  every  eye.  Yet  I 
refrain  from  questions. 

Again  she  speaks,  slowly  and  as  one  that 
looks  back  on  memories  that  are  still  fresh: 
"We  often  spent  the  winter  evenings  together. 
His  soul  was  the  thing  nearest  and  dearest  to 
me  on  earth,  but  I  loved  him  yet  more  because 
his  eyes  were  so  mournful  and  his  lips  so  fine. 

"He  may  have  been  too  outspoken:  he  de- 
sired I  should  know  all  about  him,  before  I 
plighted  my  troth.  I  wish  I  had  known  noth- 
ing; there  is  bliss  only  where  there  is  igno- 
junce.  .  .  .  For  there  have  been  some  in- 
stants of  forgetfulness;  and  these  have  given 
me  an  inkling  of  what  my  happiness  would 


Ice-Plains  57 

have  been — how  immense,  how  incredible — 
had  I  been  his  only  love  in  the  past,  as  I  am 
(it  yet  may  be)  his  only  love  in  the  present. 

"It  was  on  a  most  beautiful  winter's  night, 
silvery  in  the  moonbeams,  that  I  saw  it  pass 
before  me,  that  long  procession  of  women,  fair 
as  the  flowers  of  spring:  'a  connoisseur  in 
women'  is  what  they  call  him.  A  whole  gar- 
den of  red  flowers  sprang  up  in  the  snowy 
wilderness,  shining  afar  like  a  great  pool  of 
gore.  I  closed  my  eyes  with  the  torture  of 
the  sight. 

"If  it  be  true  that  love  consists  of  happiness 
and  delight,  then  all  this  delight  ought  to  have 
been  mine:  and  Life  had  taken  it  from  me: 
not  to  give  it  to  others,  but  just  to  throw  it 
away  (ah!  the  crime  of  it!)  to  fritter  it  away 
amongst  a  multitude  of  delights  that  might 
have  been.  For  indeed,  what  would  have 
made  my  bliss  was  a  wrong  inflicted  upon 
others,  in  the  form  of  compulsion  and  shame, 
the  torment  of  humiliation,  the  infringement 
of  their  right  to  live,  hurling  them  into  an 
abyss  of  misery  and  abandonment,  and  clos- 
ing the  gates  against  their  return  to  a  hap- 
pier state: — all  these  deeds  of  wrong-doing 
were  acts  that  might  have  given  me  bliss!  .  .  . 


58  Kobiety 

"Now,  it  came  that  in  one  of  those  moments 
of  oblivion,  when  I  felt  I  was  happy,  I  told 
him  I  would  be  his  affianced  wife. 

"Then  he  gathered  me  in  his  arms — Oh, 
with  what  a  movement,  admirable  in  its  ten- 
derness— and  pressed  me  gently  to  his  heart, 
that  he  might  kiss  my  lips. 

"And  then  came  the  most  astonishing  in- 
stant in  all  my  life.  I  had,  to  put  it  simply, 
a  vision.  Upon  his  lips  I  saw  blood — clotted, 
dried  blood — the  ashes  as  it  were  of  thousands 
and  thousands  of  kisses.  It  was  neither  loath- 
ing nor  hatred  that  I  felt;  only  an  exceeding 
horror  for  what  is  as  much  against  Nature  as 
was  any  elaborate  excruciating  torture  of 
Mediaeval  times — as  a  crime  committed  in 
secret  and  hidden  under  flowers  to  conceal  its 
every  trace.  And  from  beneath  those  flowers 
— a  sea  of  them  there  was — I  seemed  to  hear 
the  groans  as  it  were  of  those  slain  at  some 
banquet  of  Heliogabalus:  or  rather  I  heard 
laughter,  artificial,  forced,  metallic  laughter — 
the  laughter  which  'women  of  that  sort'  al- 
ways utter,  it  being  the  paid  merriment  to 
which  they  are  bound : — such  a  laugh  as  breaks 
off  suddenly,  abruptly,  as  though  startled  at 


Ice-Plains  59 

its  own  sound.  And  I  saw  my  white  lilies 
plunged  in  that  sea  of  tainted  blood! 

"So  I  repulsed  him,  as  I  would  have  re- 
pulsed a  foe.  And  here,"  she  concluded  sud- 
denly, in  a  falsetto  of  spasmodic  laughter, 
"here  my  little  idyll  comes  to  an  end." 

"But  do  you  love  the  man  still?" 

"I  do." 

From  the  farmyard  comes  the  crowing  of 
a  cock:  as  a  key  that  grates  in  a  rusty  lock,  it 
grates  on  our  ears.  Dawn  is  here. 

I  like  the  man;  or  it  may  be  that  I  rather 
like  his  surroundings,  inseparably  connected 
in  thought  with  him.  I  like  those  rooms  of 
severe  aspect,  with  their  high  ceilings,  and 
shelves  which  are  nearly  as  high  filled  with 
books,  all  in  regular  order  and  bound  in  black. 
I  like  the  great  table  in  the  centre,  lit  up  with 
bright  lamps,  and  strewn  with  periodicals  in 
every  language.  I  like,  too,  those  heavy,  com- 
fortable, leather-covered  arm-chairs  which 
stand  round  it.  Obojanski  also  I  like,  who  in 
this  environment  is  a  handsome  man,  with 
grey  hair  and  eyes  dark  and  youthful. 

Formerly  my  professor,  Obojanski  has  been 
extremely  useful  to  me  in  my  studies.  The 


60  Kobiety 

profit  I  have  derived  from  him  is,  however, 
chiefly  negative,  from  the  critical  side  of  his 
teaching.  It  still  pleases  him,  in  our  mutual 
relations,  to  take  up  the  attitude  of  a  master. 

Generally  I  come  to  him  late  in  the  even- 
ing, dressed  in  black,  in  the  style  of  "la  dame 
voilee."  If  he  is  working,  I  sit  with  him,  and 
set  to  reading  some  interesting  book:  but  we 
mostly  converse  together,  and  invariably  of 
serious  things. 

Obojanski  is  an  old  bachelor,  and  objects  to 
women  as  a  rule.  "The  idea  of  emancipation, 
possibly  not  quite  unreasonable  in  principle, 
has  been  misunderstood  and  warped  from  its 
true  meaning  by  the  women  themselves.  For 
instance,  they  are  not  content  with  equality  in 
the  field  of  economics ;  they  want  to  have  the 
same  freedom  in  their  conduct  as  is  enjoyed 
by  men.  A  fine  place  the  world  would  be,  if 
they  had!  And,  as  concerns  the  admission  of 
women  to  the  higher  studies,  this  is  abso- 
lutely superfluous:  a  woman's  brain  is  not  \ 
able  to  think  with  the  logical  accuracy  which  \ 
these  require." 

"As  to  this  last,"  I  reply,  "a  census  of  the 
f  sexes  would  not,  I  think,  be  desirable.    It  may""} 
1    svell  be  doubted,  not  only  whether  all  males,  / 

— ~«/ 


Ice-Plains  61 

|    but  whether  all  learned  men,  are  capable  of  j 

/    accurate  logical  reasoning." 

"Oh,  of  course,  exceptions  are  everywhere 
to  be  found,"  he  answers  gravely,  with  his  own 
peculiar  directness  of  mental  association. 

To  his  mind,  I  am  among  women  one  of 
those  exceptions.  He  is  never  scandalized  at 
my  late  visits;  perhaps  only  for  the  reason 
that  my  visits  are  made  to  him.  He  is  withal 
full  of  respect  for  my  intellectual  capacity, 
which  he  thinks  due  to  him.  For  him,  I  am 
the  one  woman  who  can  talk  reasonably. 

For  my  own  part,  I  do  not  consider  myself 
to  be  clever  merely  for  being  able  to  draw  a 
logical  conclusion  from  two  premises.  What 

CI  call  cleverness  is  the  faculty  of  understand- 
ing all  things,  and  of  wondering  at  none;  that 
of  setting  aside  all  preconceived  ideas  and 
doctrines,  by  reason  of  which  men  have  set  up 
"categories,"  and  of  giving  up  accepted  forms 
of  thinking,  that  seem  to  be,  but  are  not,  nec-^ 
essary  to  thought;  the  faculty  of  getting  out\ 
of    oneself,    and   viewing   both    oneself    and  ; 
everything  else  from  without  and  objectively.^ 

I  sit  down  in  one  of  the  high-backed  arm- 
chairs, and  begin  to  talk  about  some  abstruse 
subject  or  other,  but  making  every  endeavour 


62  Kobiety 

to  lead  the  conversation  round  to  Roslawski. 

"Do  you  know  London?"  I  ask. 

"Oh,  yes ;  I  was  there ;  a  long  time  ago, 
when  I  had  just  finished  my  University 
studies." 

"I  think  Roslawski  went  there  for  about  six 
months." 

"Yes,  and  he  is  there  still." 

My  strength  has  just  been  put  to  the  test, 
and  I  am  satisfied.  The  news  I  hear  neither 
makes  my  lips  tremble,  nor  dims  my  dark- 
golden  eyes  with  the  slightest  mist.  But  I  am 
careful  not  to  pretend  either  indifference  or 
special  good  humour.  Obojanski,  in  spite  of 
his  weak  points,  is  no  mean  expert  in  the 
knowledge  of  human  nature. 

"Indeed!  Why,  I  was  informed  he  had  re- 
turned to  Warsaw  already." 

"No.  I  am  expecting  him  about  the  mid- 
dle of  this  month.  He  is  a  nice  fellow,  is  he 
not?  We  three  got  on  very  well  together." 

"I  hope  you  don't  mean  that  we  two  do  not 
get  on  well,"  I  answer,  smiling  amiably. 

He  shows  me  a  post-card  that  he  has  got 
from  Roslawski:  water,  some  shipping,  and 
an  ugly  building  ashore,  with  innumerable 
windows.  I  for  the  first  time  see  his  hand- 


Ice-Plains  63 

writing:  sloping,  not  very  legible;  nothing 
much  out  of  the  ordinary.  I  should  like  to 
press  it  to  my  lips,  which  would  be  a  piece  of 
highly  unjustifiable  sentimentalism. 

Greatly  as  I  want  to  go  home,  and — like  a 
child — have  "a  good  cry"  all  by  myself,  I 
stay  on  there  for  some  time.  Obojanski  offers 
me  several  books,  dealing  mostly  with  matters 
zoological.  I  of  course  try  to  excuse  myself 
as  best  I  can.  At  last,  he  lectures  me  on  the 
way  I  am  wasting  my  talents,  and  says  that 
my  mind,  "if  deprived  of  intellectual  nourish- 
ment, will  pine  away." 

"But,  Professor,"  I  point  out,  not  without  a 
touch  of  pride,  "I  really  am  not  at  all  nat- 
urally fitted  to  be  a  woman  of  scientific  attain- 
ments." 

"Ah,  but  have  a  little  faith  in  yourself; 
you  ought  to.  Truly,  science  is  your  exclu- 
sive vocation;  but  you  must  work;  you  need  to 
work  a  good  deal.  With  your  abilities  .  .  ." 

I  go  home,  taking  the  books  with  me.  My 
room  is  dark  and  dreary  and  solitary.  I  am 
most  bitterly  disappointed. 

I  have  done  a  silly  thing  to-day. 

A  girl  named  Nierwiska  works  in  the  office 


64  Kobiety 

with  me.  I  like  her  best  of  all,  because  she 
is  the  prettiest.  Both  her  looks  and  her  get- 
up  are  in  rather  consistent  Japanese  style;  a 
style  that  makes  her  look  limp  and  drooping 
under  the  burden  of  her  own  hair.  Now,  on 
my  return  from  the  holidays,  I  had  noticed 
that  she  was  much  changed  and  extremely 
dejected. 

To-day,  contrary  to  my  custom,  I  left  the 
office  with  her,  and  it  turned  out  that  our  way 
home  was  the  same  for  a  good  distance. 

Our  conversation  runs  at  first  on  indiffer- 
ent matters.  Nierwiska  answers  briefly,  in 
low  tones,  now  and  then  casting  a  somewhat 
suspicious  glance  towards  me.  Women  have 
intuition;  and  she,  less  cultured  than  Martha, 
is  averse  to  purely  objective  curiosity.  I  feel 
that,  at  any  question  too  bluntly  put,  she  will 
shut  her  lips  fast,  shrink  back  into  herself, 
and  close  up  like  a  mimosa  leaf;  and  this 
makes  me  doubly  cautious.  Our  talk  turns 
upon  the  general  lot  of  women  who  earn  their 
bread. 

"Those  who  are  forced  to  work  for  their 
livelihood,"  she  says  in  musical  tones,  "are 
apt  to  fall  into  a  chronic  state  of  dreariness, 
even  when  no  real  and  tangible  cause  is  there." 


Ice-Plains  65 

"You  are  right.  Certainly,  there  are  peo- 
ple who  cannot  understand  how  it  is  possible 
to  feel  sad,  so  long  as  no  harm  is  done  them. 
But  for  us,  life  itself  is  an  evil ;  it  harms  us." 

"Because  of  the  work  we  have  to  do." 

"Then  don't  you  like  your  work?" 

"On  the  contrary.  I  should  like  it, 
but  .  .  ." 

"Well,  but  what?" 

"In  general,  I  can  work  with  a  pretty  good 
will ;  but  just  now  I  am  so  weary  and  so  up- 
set. .  .  ." 

We  are  now  in  front  of  the  house  where 
Nierwiska  is  living.  As  we  take  leave  of  each 
other,  I  draw  her  into  the  doorway,  and  ask 
her  in  a  whisper: 

"You  are  in  love,  are  you  not?" 

She  starts  away  from  me  in  a  flutter  of  shy- 
ness. I  stroke  her  hand  soothingly. 

"And  things  don't  go  smoothly,  eh?    Tell 


me." 


She  hangs  her  head,  and  replies,  in  an  ear-' 
nest  childlike  tone: 

"No,  they  do  not." 

"What!  does  he  not  love  you?" 

"Perhaps  he  does — just  a  little.  But  I  must 
tell  you,  with  me,  self-respect  comes  first  of 


66  Kobiety 

all.  ...  I  cannot  .  .  .  Even  should  I  be 
Forced  to  break  it  all  off,  I  will  have  nothing 
to  blush  for." 

I  look  at  her  attentively,  not  without  sur- 
prise: till  now,  I  had  not  known  her  to  be  of 
this  stamp. 

"As  for  me,"  I  suddenly  burst  out,  "as  for 
me, — if  the  man  who  ruined  my  life,  and  took 
his  leave  without  even  a  smile  or  a  kind  word 
of  farewell,  were  only  to  beckon  me  to  him 
to-day,  I  would  at  once  follow  him  like  a 
lamb!" 

Then,  in  the  rough,  free  and  easy  way  of 
comrades  at  work,  I  bid  her  good-bye  with  a 
hand-shake,  and  walk  swiftly  away  from  her 
door,  depressed  and  uncomfortable;  humbled, 
in  a  word. 

And  now,  I  am  in  a  most  vile  humour.  She 
has  shown  herself  far  more  clear-headed  than 
I  have.  By  means  of  a  few  commonplaces, 
she  has  forced  from  me  an  avowal  that  I  never 
would  have  made,  no,  not  even  to  Martha 
herself!  ...  A  pose, — in  part  at  least, — that 
prodigious  self-respect  of  hers.  All  the  same, 
she  is  sacrificing  her  love  to  it. 

Strange  creatures  they  are!  Take  Martha's 
case:  purity!  why,  she  was  raving  about  it. 


Ice-Plains  67 

Nothing  should  stand  in  my  way,  if  I 
loved ;  and  therefore  no  doubt  I  cannot  meet 
with  love  anywhere. 

I  often  call  upon  Obojanski  now,  in  the 
dim  semi-conscious  hope  that  I  may  meet  him 
there.  And  each  of  my  visits  is  only  a  fresh 
disappointment. 

This  "hope  deferred"  is  working  me  up  be- 
yond all  bearing;  and  the  bitterness  of  my 
suffering  makes  me  long  for  him  yet  more 
impatiently  and  more  fondly.  Really,  I  begin 
to  believe  that  I  love  the  man. 

I  care  no  longer  for  songs,  for  dances,  for 
flowers.  I  dream  of  a  strange  life,  a  cold  out- 
of-the-way  life, — he  and  I  together, — nay,  a 
life  from  which  kisses  should  be  shut  out.  I 
cannot  tell  why,  but  I  somehow  fancy  I  could 
not  bring  myself  to  kiss  that  hard,  firm-set 
mouth.  Nothing  binds  me  to  him — nothing 
but  the  sway  of  his  keen,  icy  glance.  And  yet, 
I  live  in  the  belief  that  he  is  destined  to  be 
mine,  that  no  one  else  shall  be  my  husband. 

I  went  to  Obojanski  to-day,  in  order  to  re- 
turn to  him  (unread)  a  monograph  about 
some  species  of  insect 

From  the  ante-room  I  could  hear  a  man's 
voice. 


68  Kobiety 

My  heart  gave  a  bound  of  joy,  mingled 
with  trepidation ;  it  was  stilled  again  at  once. 

It  was,  as  I  presently  found  out,  the  voice 
of  Smilowicz,  a  former  pupil  of  Obojanski: 
an  ugly  little  man,  who  makes  people  laugh  a 
great  deal,  not  by  his  wit,  but  by  his  queer, 
comical  grimaces. 

"I  must  begin  by  telling  you  quite  frankly," 
he  says,  turning  to  me,  "that  at  first  sight  I 
thought  you  hateful ;  you  had  all  the  outward 
appearance  of  a  fine  lady.  It  was  only  when 
the  Professor  had  explained  to  me  that  you 
were  an  accountant  and  worked  for  your  liv- 
ing, that  my  hatred  changed  into  sympathy 
for  you." 

His  hearty  laugh  infects  me  with  a  gaiety 
so  artificial  that  it  almost  gives  me  pain. 

"Your  compliment,  paid  in  so  negative  a 
form,  I  cannot  doubt  to  be  sincere;  as  such 
it  is  a  novelty.  But  I  have  not  the  least  wish 
to  make  my  appearance  symbolize  the  dreary 
lot  of  a  woman  who  works." 

Obojanski,  somewhat  annoyed,  remarks: 
"Alas!  that  even  the  cleverest  of  her  sex 
should  have  this  little  bit  of  vanity!" 

I  glance  at  his  form,  gracefully  leaning 
back  in  his  easy-chair,  clad  in  a  fine  suit  of 


Ice-Plains  69 

black  cloth;  at  his  trousers,  beautifully 
creased,  his  nicely-tied  cravat,  and  his  silvery 
beard  in  perfect  trim;  and  I  smile  silently. 
I  shall  not  tell  him  what  comes  to  my  mind: 
he  would  directly  begin  to  protest  that  his 
clothing  is  as  unpretentious  as  can  be;  neither 
dirty  nor  untidy,  but  nothing  more.  Now  all 
these  half-conscious,  but  innumerable,  little 
insincerities,  are  distasteful  to  me:  there  is 
something  unmanly  about  them. 

"Vanity  is  nothing  but  the  esthetic  feeling 
^  in  its  maturity.     Undoubtedly  it  contains  an 
element  of  coquetry,  but  the  latter  has  its 
source  in  the  reproductive  instinct."    This  I 
say,  seriously,  but  speaking  quickly,  to  hide 
what  I   feel;   adding,   "It  is  by  a  woman's^ 
/  clothing  that  her  individuality  and  degree  of 
\   artistic  culture  are  made  known." 

"Individuality?  In  the  fetters  of  fashion? 
Bah!" 

"Well,  what  is  fashion  after  all?  It  only 
expresses  variations  in  the  preferences  of  hu- 
man beings:  just  like  the  various  periods  in 
literature  and  art  and  history." 

Smilowicz  interferes.  "Yes,  but  these  vari- 
ations of  preference  should  be  free,  not  en- 
forced." 


70  Kobiety 

"There  is  no  help  for  that.  In  every  sphere 
of  life  we  meet  with  individuals  who  have 
happy  thoughts,  and  with  crowds  who  imitate 
them.  No  one  orders  them  to  imitate:  they 
do  so  willingly,  driven  by  the  force  of  other 
people's  opinions,  because  they  neither  think 
nor  act  for  themselves.  Besides,  is  the  fol- 
lowing of  fashion  necessarily  a  spirit  of  imita- 
tion? It  is  very  often,  as  it  were,  something 
infectious  in  the  air  we  breathe.  Short 
sleeves  succeed  to  long  ones,  sleeves  puffed- 
about  the  wrists,  to  sleeves  puffed  at  the  shoul- 
ders: just  as  Idealism  comes  after  Realism, 
and  as  Mysticism  reigns  where  Positivism 
reigned  once." 

"Tut,  tut,  tut,"  says  the  Professor,  "there  is 
some  difference  between  literature  and  dress." 

"Oh,  surely  .  .  .  Now,  every  general  trend 
should  allow  particular  tendencies  to  come 
into  play,  and  it  is  just  in  these  that  individ- 
uality is  manifested.  And  that's  why  I  sim- 
ply cannot  bear  male  attire,  with  its  never- 
changing  stiffness  and  lifelessness  of  form." 

"Ah,  but  do  you  not  see  that  this  fixed 
standard  is  the  'great  leveller  of  classes/ 
which  annihilates  inequalities  in  social  stand- 
ing? Attired  as  I  am,  there  is  no  difference 


Ice-Plains  71 

between  me  and  a  shoemaker  in  his  Sunday 


suit." 


Once  again,  the  insincerity,  the  cheap  semi- 
conscious coquetry  of  these  words,  is  disagree- 
able to  me.  No  one  looking  at  him  could 
help  seeing  that  a  shoemaker,  were  he  clad  in 
those  very  garments,  would  be  otherwise  at- 
tired than  he.  And  this  Obojanski  is  perfect- 
ly well  aware  of. 

"That,"  I  make  answer,  "is  just  what  is 
wrong  with  men's  clothing;  it  excludes  the 
manifestation  of  what  in  reality  exists,  and, 
by  removing  the  outward  show  of  an  evil,  it 
helps  us  to  forget  its  presence.  I. do  not  think 
that  to  be  at  all  right." 

"Yes,"  Smilowicz  chimes  in  with  his  funny 
smile,  "its  result  for  you,  Professor,  would  be 
that  people,  taking  you  for  a  shoemaker, 
might  fancy  you  to  be  an  honest  man  who  gets 
his  bread  by  his  work  alone." 

The  notes  of  Grieg's  De r  Friihling  just  now 
recur  to  my  mind :  they  so  strongly  recall  those 
evenings  I  spent  with  Martha.  I  was  happier 
then:  every  present  good  is  always  greatly 
magnified,  when  past.  I  now  look  back  on 
fClosow  as  on  a  Paradise — to  which  I  shall 
never  return! 


72  Kobiety 

Something  grievous  is  awaiting  me  here. 
And,  meanwhile,  he  does  not  come — he  does 
not  come! 


"There  are  times  when  I  doubt  whether  I 
am  doing  well  to  awake  your  mind  so  early, 
and  raise  doubts  on  all  the  points  you  were 
accustomed  to  believe  in.  I  fear  you  may  find 
such  views  an  intolerable  weight  upon  your 
mind,  and  lose  yourself  in  the  maze  of  my 
own  sceptical  musings." 

With  these  words,  Obojanski  winds  up  a 
long  lecture  that  tends  to  prove  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  a  God,  and  that  the  soul  is  but 
a  function  of  the  body.  I  smile  at  his  fears, 
which  (I  assure  him)  are  quite  groundless: 
I  am  not  in  danger  of  any  doubt  whatever  on 
things  fundamental. 

"I  now  see  that  I  look  upon  you  as  a  friend, 
and  talk  to  you  about  everything.  I  forget 
that  you  are  a  woman — and  as  yet  all  but  a 
little  girl." 

And  here  the  electric  bell  rings;  its  tinkle 
announces  nothing  out  of  the  common  to  me! 

"Who  has  come  so  late?"  I  ask,  trembling 
all  over. 

"Roslawski,  very  likely.  .  .  .  He   arrived 


Ice-Plains  73 

yesterday,  and  wrote  that  he  would  be  here; 
but  I  was  not  expecting  him  any  longer." 

I  hear  the  servant's  steps  in  the  ante-room, 

and  the  door  as  it  opens.     Obojanski  leaves 

the  room,  and  presently  I  recognize  that  voice 

— his  voice!     He  is  explaining  the  cause  of 

his  delay  in  coming. 

"Have  you  any  one  with  you?"  he  asks, 
evidently  averse  to  seeing  strangers  now. 

"No,  no;  only  Smilowicz  and  Miss  Derno- 
wicz,  whom  you  know.  .  .  .  Come  along." 

This  time  my  self-control  has  quite  forsaken 
me,  and  I  feel  my  face  on  fire.  .  .  .  My  first 
impulse  is  to  jump  up  from  my  chair  and 
welcome  him;  fortunately,  I  have  not  the 
strength  to  rise. 

I  keep  silence,  hanging  down  my  head,  so 
as  to  conceal  the  working  of  my  features. 
Smilowicz  says  something  to  me,  but  I  cannot 
make  out  what. 

In  comes  Roslawski;  I  bow  without  look- 
ing him  in  the  face;  indeed,  I  scarce  raise  my 
head  at  all. 

I  am  terribly  afraid  I  shall  do  some  unex- 
pected thing.  A  wild  unaccountable  terror 
comes  over  me,  such  as  one  feels  when  about 
to  faint.  I  clench  my  teeth,  expectant. 


74  Kobiety 

After  a  while,  my  nervousness  passes  away, 
and  I  can  hear  myself  asking  him  about  his 
voyage,  about  England,  about  the  sea;  the 
calm  indifference  of  my  own  voice  is  a  sur- 
prise to  me. 

The  first  coherent  thought  which  strikes  me 
is — that  I  am  a  handsome  woman:  that  I  must 
be  handsome.  Roslawski  is  talking  to  Obo- 
janski;  it  is  a  long  time  since  they  met,  and 
they  must  be  left  to  themselves  a  little  while. 
I  get  up  from  my  arm-chair  and  go  towards 
Smilowicz,  who  stands  silently  by,  looking  at 
a  new  book  on  one  of  the  shelves.  Cool,  ma- 
jestic, with  head  erect  and  bright  eyes  shining 
serenely  in  the  gas-light,  I  walk  by,  close  to 
Roslawski.  I  see  myself  as  from  without,  clad 
in  a  clinging  black  dress,  wearing  a  great  soft 
and  quaintly  designed  autumn  hat;  with  out- 
lines that  form  a  graceful  silhouette,  slow 
movements,  picturesque  in  their  indolence, 
the  outcome  of  a  superfluity  of  latent  vital 
force,  kept  down  and  subdued  by  the  will. 

For  the  first  time  now  I  cast  my  eyes  upon 
him,  and  meet  that  cold,  critical  glance  of  his. 
No  one  but  myself  has  ever  hitherto  been  able 
to  look  at  me  in  such  wise. 

I   am  standing  by  Smilowicz,   and  stoop 


Ice-Plains  75 

down  with  a  motion  full  of  elegance  and 
grace,  to  read  the  title  of  the  book  he  is  perus- 
ing. And  all  the  time  I  know  that  the  other's 
cold  glance  is  fixed  on  me. 

"You  have  changed  very  considerably  dur- 
ing the  vacation,  Miss  Dernowicz,"  Roslaw- 
ski  says  to  me,  in  an  undertone  audible  in  the 
quiet  room. 

"Have  I?"  This  I  say  with  a  smile,  rais- 
ing my  head. 

"Yes,  you  seem  taller  now,  and  more  like  a 
(grown-up.'  Last  year  there  was  still  some- 
thing of  the  schoolgirl  in  your  appearance." 

I  protest,  laughingly,  and  try  to  talk  with 
Smilowicz.  But  instead  of  listening  to  him, 
I  am  thinking. 

Roslawski  is  to  my  mind  not  so  much  a  man 
as  a  mechanical  power,  something  of  a  nature 
that  is  hostile  and  full  of  hatred;  something 
dangerous;  a  mesmeric  influence.  This  tall, 
well-dressed,  well-informed  gentleman  in 
glasses  is  not  to  my  mind  a  living  man:  rather 
a  sort  of  abstract  idea.  At  times  I  can  scarce 
believe  him  to  have  any  personal  existence  at 
all. 

I  have  somehow  the  impression  that  I  am 
standing  upon  a  railway  track,  in  a  whirlwind 


j6  Kobiety 

of  frozen  snow.  Above  the  howling  of  the 
blast,  I  hear  the  thunder  of  an  approaching 
train;  but  I  remain  rooted  to  the  spot,  my 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  cold  unfeeling  glare  from 
the  lamps  of  the  engine  rushing  on  and  going 
to  crush  me: — rooted  there  as  in  a  dreadful 
nightmare,  and  unable  to  take  my  eyes  away 
from  those  calm  and  ever-dazzling  lights. 
There  I  stand,  waiting,  powerless,  full  of  hos- 
tility yet  of  self-abasement. 

Tea  is  brought,  and  the  conversation  be- 
comes general.  To  the  atmosphere  that  al- 
ways reigns  at  Obojanski's,  Roslawski  now 
brings  a  newly  imported  stock  of  British  ici- 
ness  and  rigidity.  We  all  are  sensible  of  the 
bonds  of  I  know  not  what  invisible  etiquette, 
enveloping  and  wrapping  us  up  like  subtle, 
unbreakable  cobwebs:  we  no  longer  venture 
to  laugh  out  loud;  everything  is  suppressed 
and  stiff  and  grey. 

"So  then,"  he  says,  without  for  a  second 
taking  his  eyes  off  me  during  the  whole  of  our 
conversation,  "so  then,  you  can  manage  to 
look  at  everything  in  life  as  an  object  of  ob- 
servation and  severe  minute  analysis?" 

"Yes,  I  can.     Predominance  of  the  think- 


Ice-Plains  77 

ing  over  the  emotional  faculties  is  a  character- 
istic of  my  brain." 

"Don't  you  consider  this  a  disadvantage  to 
you?  Such  constant  vigilance  must  deprive 
you  of  all  directness  in  feeling." 

"To  some  extent,  yes.  But  this  want  of 
directness  is  fully  compensated  by  the  very 
process  of  observation  and  analysis,  which  are 
a  source  of  intense  pleasure  to  me.  Besides, 
in  the  place  of  mere  intensity  of  impression, 
I  attain  a  far  wider  range;  for  my  mind  has 
the  pleasure  of  perceiving  and  discriminating 
certain  nice  shades,  which  escape  the  notice 
of  others." 

A  smile  rises  to  Roslawski's  lips,  and  I  feel 
my  soul  freezing  within  me. 

And  now,  summer  is  dead  and  gone:  with- 
ered with  suffering  and  desire,  the  flame-red 
flower  of  Life  has  fallen  to  the  ground.  Now 
once  more  the  infinite  ice-plains  are  stretch- 
ing all  around  me.  Behold  the  sun  quenched 
in  the  black  sky,  and  the  greenish  Northern 
Lights  rising  above  the  horizon.  And  my  ice- 
cold  dreams,  that  had  died,  now  come  to  life 
again.  And  see!  that  Soul  of  mine,  which 
trampled  my  flowers  beneath  her  feet,  girds 
up  her  loins  and  goes  forth  into  the  snowy 


78  Kobiety 

Infinite,  priding  herself  upon  her  sorry  tri- 
umph, and  singing  joyously  her  lofty  and 
sublime  hymn  to  Death! 

Oh,  how  terrible  it  is,  when  the  Soul  is  vic- 
torious! How  terrible! 

The  weather  has  changed  very  suddenly; 
it  is  nearly  as  warm  as  in  summer,  and  the 
leaves  seem  to  have  turned  yellow  with  heat. 

I  am  coming  home  from  the  office,  alone 
and  forsaken  by  all. 

I  am  dreaming  (like  a  dream  indeed  it  is) 
of  the  boundless  fields,  the  picturesque  ridges, 
the  dark  forests  and  fragrant  meadows  of 
Klosow.  I  see  the  park,  too,  with  its  neatly- 
trimmed  shrubberies  and  lofty  trees;  their 
bare  trunks  and  leafy  tops  forming  a  canopy 
high  overhead  under  the  sky,  and  the  foliage 
turning  yellow  or  red  in  the  sunny  glare.  The 
pond,  too,  do  I  see — so  large  that  it  may  be 
called  a  lake — the  pond,  bleak  and  desolate  in 
the  moonless,  starless  night;  that  night,  when 
I  broke  away  from  the  magic  spell  of  Life,  and 
slew  my  own  felicity  with  my  own  hands. 

Before  my  eyes,  people  are  walking  along 
the  avenues,  strewn  with  dry  dead  leaves. 
The  slightest  breath  of  air  brings  down  from 


Ice-Plains  79 

the  trees  these  tatters  and  strips,  once  a  purple 
kingly  mantle:  but  men  go  on,  pitilessly 
trampling  down  the  rustling  leaves. 

Now  I  am  in  a  strange  humour — a  sort  of 
Pantheistic  mood.  My  Ego  is  multiplying, 
growing  into  countless  gods,  and  penetrating 
the  whole  world,  wherein  there  is  no  room 
for  aught  save  Me.  And,  therefore,  prodi- 
gious amazement  takes  hold  of  me,  when  I 
think  how  all  these  crowds  of  people  can  tread 
upon  my  golden  autumnal  leaves,  or  glance 
at  me,  because  I  have  a  noticeable  face  and  a 
hat  a  la  diable  m'enporte.  Can  I  think  that 
they  live?  There  is  no  life  but  mine  only. 

No,  they  have  not  life. 

And  there, — an  immense  way  off,  on  the 
farther  shore  of  the  Ocean  of  Infinity, — there 
he  stands,  he,  the  only  foe  worthy  of  me:  and 
he  waits  that  I  should  go  onward  to  meet  him! 

And  I — I  stand  in  fear.  For  a  week  I  have 
not  been  at  Obojanski's,  where  he  goes  pretty 
nearly  every  night. 

When  the  thought  comes  to  me  of  the  splen- 
did sorrel  mount  I  had,  and  of  Janusz  whose 
lips  were  so  sweet,  I  have  a  mind  to  burst  out 
crying.  But  I  shall  not  go  back  there,  un- 
less .  .  .  Oh,  if  I  could  help  going  back! 


8o  Kobiety 

I  have  an  irresistible  inclination  to  seek  for 
types  amongst  people.  I  do  not  like  things 
accidental,  either  without  logical  connection, 
or  without  connection  with  the  special  nature  / 
of  a  given  mind.  If  it  depended  upon  me, 
I  would,  like  a  scientist  at  work  in  his  labora- 
tory, remove  from  every  character  whatever 
is  unnecessary  and  unessential,  lest  this  should 
render  its  reactions  with  others  too  compli- 
cated and  obscure.  For  example,  I  should 
like  to  make  of  Obojanski  a  sage  of  ancient 
Greece,  and  eliminate  from  him  everything 
that  disagreed  with  this  type.  Smilowicz 
should  be  a  narrow-minded  Socialist:  as  mat- 
ters stand,  he  is  too  clever  for  his  type,  and 
most  needlessly  cleverer  than  Obojanski. 
Roslawski  is  almost  perfect.  I  should  only 
desire — and  this,  too,  for  purely  personal  mo- 
tives— that  he  might  look  upon  marriage  from 
a  less  absolutely  ideal  standpoint. 

What  my  own  type  is,  I  do  not  know.  Very 
likely  I  have  none;  and  this  has  troubled  my 
mind  for  ever  so  many  a  year.  I  am  unable 
to  find  anything  general  in  myself,  or  to  de- 
fine my  own  nature  in  one  word  and  make  an 
abstraction  of  it.  For  that,  I  am  far  too  com- 
plex. 


Ice-Plains  81 

My  father  was  a  bricklayer;  and  yet  there 
is  nothing  vulgar  in  my  face  or  postures  or 
motions.  I  sweep  my  floor  and  clean  my  own 
shoes:  yet  my  hands  are  as  soft  as  velvet. 
During  the  whole  of  my  childhood,  I  used 
either  to  go  barefoot,  or  in  cheap,  clumsy 
boots ;  yet  my  feet  are  white,  and  bear  no  mark 
that  I  ever  went  so.  My  work  for  the  greater 
part  of  the  day — the  adding  up  of  innumer- 
able columns  of  figures — is  such  as  might  be- 
numb most  brains,  and  yet  I  am  quite  able  to 
think  keenly.  Though  I  neither  write  poetry, 
nor  sing,  nor  paint,  I  have  a  thoroughly  artis- 
tic mind.  My  way  of  living  borders  on  the 
penurious;  yet  I  have  all  the  epicurean  in- 
stincts of  those  who  live  at  another's  expense. 
After  all,  I  am  (as  I  am  perfectly  well  aware) 
nothing  extraordinary;  and  yet,  to  be  the  little 
that  I  am,  I  have  not  undergone  one  twinge 
of  conscience;  in  all  that  is  Me,  there  is  not 
one  atom  of  harm  done  to  any  one,  and  no  one 
single  tear  of  any  being  alive. 

A  post-card  from  Martha,  with  a  "Deca- 
dent" figure  of  a  woman,  all  covered  over 
with  microscopic  handwriting. 

"Grandfather  is  dangerously  ill.     I  have 


82  Kobiety 

not  had  a  wink  of  sleep  for  a  week,  and  am 
almost  light-headed  in  consequence.  Nerv- 
ous energy  alone  has  sustained  me  till  now: 
I  cannot  answer  for  the  morrow.  I  continu- 
ally feel  as  if  my  brain  were  swelling,  and 
would  presently  fly  to  pieces.  I  am  tormented 
with  the  horrible  uselessness  of  undeserved 
pain.  I  don't  want  to  think  what  the  end  of 
all  this  is  to  be.  I  only  know  that  something 
within  me  is  giving  way.  Never  yet  has  my 
spirit  been  so  broken  down:  I  am  now  paying 
the  score  of  the  Past,  and  with  usurious  inter- 
est besides.  The  autumn  of  life  has  come 
upon  me,  taking  me  unawares:  nor  is  it  re- 
lieved by  any  reminiscence  of  a  spring-time 
that  never  was  mine.  Every  night,  and  all 
night  long,  I  am  sitting  by  poor  Grand- 
father's bed,  going  over  my  interminable 
litany  of  sorrow,  and  shedding  my  heart's 
blood  drop  by  drop. — M." 

And  about  Janusz  not  one  word! 

As  I  am  going  home  from  the  office  to-day, 
I  come  across  Smilowicz,  with  a  big  parcel  of 
books  under  his  arm.  In  spite  of  his  ridicu- 
lous smile,  the  man  impresses  me:  the  life  he 
leads  is  in  such  strict  conformity  with  the  doc- 


Ice-Plains  83 

trines  which  he  professes.  Obojanski  tells  me 
he  is  a  very  able  teacher  of  Natural  Science ; 
but  he  loses  all  his  lessons,  because  he  cannot 
reconcile  his  advanced  opinions  with  what  the 
school  superintendents  require.  For  some 
time  past,  he  has  had  nothing,  or  nearly  noth- 
ing, to  eat :  he  spends  his  mornings  in  the  Uni- 
versity Library,  and  his  evenings  at  Obojan- 
ski's. 

As  we  pass  along  by  the  "Philharmonia" 
building,  he  informs  me  that  he  has  never 
been  inside  it. 

"Do  you  object  to  going  there?" 

"Most  certainly.  I  am  against  music,  fine 
costumes,  everything  that  represents  satisfac- 
tion and  amusement.  To  me  all  that  only  sug- 
gests extortion,  wrong-doing,  and  injustice: 
for  but  a  few  are  able  to  go  there,  and  that 
only  at  the  expense  of  others." 

"But  you  forget  that  wrong-doing  and  in- 
justice are  by  no  means  essentials  of  the  Beau- 
tiful, of  Art,  and  of  artistic  delight,  though 
at  the  present  time  they  happen  to  exist  in 
connection  with  these.  Your  theory  seems  to 
me  to  make  far  too  much  of  what  actually  is. 
Try  to  deliver  yourself  from  the  fetters  of 
the  Temporal;  look  upon  the  present  day,  as 


84  Kobiety 

being  yourself  outside  of  it  and  soaring  above 
it:  do  you  see  what  I  mean? — I  also  resent 
whatever  is  unjust,  but  I  can  separate  the 
Beautiful  therefrom  and  love  it,  both  in  Art 
and  in  life." 

"Well,  you  may  be  right,  but  I  cannot  take 
up  so  objective  a  point  of  view.  In  me  indig- 
nation overbears  any  gentler  artistic  senti- 
ment. Yet  more:  I  think  it  is  not  now  the 
time  to  enjoy  Art,  or  to  plunge  into  the  deep 
and  subtle  analyses  of  Estheticism.  What  we 
want  at  the  present  time  is  Action." 

"But,  for  myself,  I  quiet  my  conscience  with 
the  fact,  which  I  know  to  be  true,  that  I  am 
living  now  just  as  I  should  live  in  that  future 
when,  as  Ferri  says,  all  are  from  the  very  out- 
set to  have  equal  opportunities  for  their  de- 
velopment." 

Smilowicz  is  pleased. 

"Ah,  then  you  understand.  ...  I  was 
afraid  you  had  been  surprised  at  my  friend- 
ship for  Obojanski,  seeing  the  way  I  am  ac- 
customed to  talk.  But,  you  know,  if  scientific 
work  were  properly  remunerated,  Obojan- 
ski's  monographs  would  bring  him  in  enough 
money  to  live  as  sumptuously  as  he  is  doing 
now.  So  he  arrives  at  the  very  same  result, 


Ice-Plains  85 

though  by  different  roads.     Yet  that,  unfor- 
tunately, is  paltering  with  principles." 

Oh,  I  should  not  object,  so  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned, to  any  such  "paltering!"  As  things 
stand,  I  am  working  too  much:  I  might  work 
less  and  do  something  better.  .  .  .  All  my 
talent  is  quite  thrown  away  on  those  everlast- 
ing accounts. 

My  dream  is  now,  how  to  make  more 
money.  And  this  renders  me  somewhat  un- 
easy; perhaps  it  is  on  account  of  pecuniary 
circumstances  that  I  am  now  considering  the 
possibility  of  marriage  with  Janusz,  in  case 
Roslawski  .  .  . 

This  I  should  not  like.     Not  because  it 
would  show  my  character  in  an  ignoble  light. 
That's  nonsense.    No,  but  it  would  mark  how  \ 
little  I  care  for  the  creature  I  could  take  on 
such  terms. 

I  am  of  those  whose  sin  is  greater  than  the 
sin  of  Eve  and  Adam:  I  have  eaten  of  the 
fruit  of  the  knowledge  that  there  is  neither 
good  nor  evil. 

Yes,  for  I  have  gone  on — on  to  the  very  end. 
Every  one  has  something  he  can  call  his  own. 
Sufferers  magnify  in  their  mind  the  power  of 


86  Kobiety 

suffering;  those  who  have  abandoned  every- 
thing make  a  god  of  their  strength  of  will  to 
do  so.  But  I  have  nothing  left,  nothing  abso- 
lutely. Of  beauty  I  have  not  enough  to  love 
that  beauty  in  myself.  Wisdom  is  wisdom 
from  one  standpoint  only:  that  lost,  its  very 
idea  ceases  to  exist.  I  have  too  much  mind 
to  be  artful  and  mysterious,  so  I  strike  no  one 
as  being  uncommon.  I  have  all  the  short- 
comings of  a  perfect  sage;  for  I  believe  in 
nothing,  and  am  indifferent  to  all  things.  But 
I  am  not,  as  sages  are,  encyclopaedic,  nor  do 
I  love  knowledge,  nor  have  I  any.  At  the 
same  time,  I  do  not,  like  a  typical  Decadent, 
hug  myself  at  the  thought  of  my  doubts  and 
of  my  indifference.  Quite  the  contrary — to 
others,  nay,  even  to  myself,  I  play  the  part  of 
one  that  is  blithe,  well-favoured,  happy,  and 
quite  satisfied  with  being  what  I  am.  This 
is  not  because  I  deliberately  try  to  keep  my 
secret  to  myself,  but  because  merriment  is  to 
my  mind  less  wearisome  than  the  apathy  of 
doubt.  And  I  have  not  as  my  own  even 
what  I  say  here,  for  I  am  not  sure  that  it  is 
true.  .  .  . 

Roslawski  .  .  .  ?  Well,  say  I  am  attracted 
by  the  interest  of  an  experiment. 


Ice-Plains  87 

Out  of  which  I  am  making  a  grave  and 
important  affair,  simply  because  of  my  love 
for  some  pathos  in  life.  .  .  . 

Why,  Janusz  himself  can  be  "distin- 
guished" on  certain  occasions. 

Madame,  (he  writes), 
May  I  venture  to  remind  you  that  the  pe- 
riod chosen  by  you,  within  which  to  give  me  a 
definite  answer,  will  have  come  to  an  end  on 
Monday  next? 

I  beg  to  remain,  Madame, 

Most  respectfully  yours, 

Janusz. 

Yes,  the  time  has  come.  I  shall  go  to  Obo- 
janski's  to-night. 

Here  I  have  come,  with  fevered  lips  and 
ice-cold  heart,  only  to  find  that  Roslawski 
went  away  but  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago,  hav- 
ing to  dine  with  some  friends  this  evening. 

I  still  can  smell  in  the  air  the  brand  of 
cigars  that  he  smokes.  .  .  .  My  eye-brows  and 
lids  are  twitching  as  if  agitated  by  some 
witch's  spell. 

Yet  I  experience  not  the  least  disappoint- 
ment at  not  finding  him  here:  rather  a  sense 


88  Kobiety 

of  relief,  that  I  can  put  the  affair  off  a  little 
longer. 

Obojanski  tells  me  what  a  favourite  of  Ros- 
lawski  I  am,  and  goes  so  far  as  to  hint — in 
jest — that  he  is  in  love  with  me.  This  very 
evening  he  was  asking  why  I  have  paid  no 
visit  to  my  old  Professor  for  such  a  length  of 
time.  This,  for  a  man  of  his  sort,  must  mean 
a  great  deal. 

In  the  main,  however,  Obojanski  is  this  eve- 
ning in  a  pessimistic  and  quarrelsome  mood. 
He  blames  me  for  too  readily  taking  up  with 
new  trends  of  thought:  which  does  me  great 
harm.  There  is  no  contemporary  poet  equal 
to  Homer:  I  ought  therefore  to  be  somewhat 
more  deeply  read  in  the  works  of  the  old 
classics,  which  reflect  such  a  healthy  feeling 
of  harmony  between  body  and  mind. 

"You  are,"  he  says,  "daily  less  mindful  of 
the  admirable  maxim,  'Mens  sana  in  corpore 
sano.' " 

"Why,  no;  I  decidedly  uphold  proper  care 
of  the  body,  to  make  it  hardy  and  healthy,  and 
able  to  resist  the  wear  and  tear  of  our  now 
over-subtle  and  over-sensitive  minds." 

"Yes,  but  nowadays  our  very  minds  are  dis- 
eased." 


Ice-Plains  89 

"Well,  then,  let  my  motto  be:  'In  a  sound 
body,  a  diseased  mind!' ' 

Or  what  people  may  choose  to  call  diseased. 

Scholars  and  thinkers,  though  they  surely 
must  have  made  some  studies  in  logic,  yet  rea- 
son thus  by  analogy:  Disease  of  the  body  is 
any  departure  from  its  normal  state:  conse- 
quently, any  but  an  average  mind  is  diseased. 
But  if  they  start  from  the  premise  that  mind 
and  body  are  identical,  then  why  reason  at  all 
on  the  matter? 

Now  I  would  burst  into  song,  to  run  about 
in  the  open  country,  flooded  with  the  white 
low  sunbeams,  and  to  utter  cries  of  joy. 

Why?  Because  the  old  Professor  has  said: 
"He  is  in  love  with  you!"  And  because  I  be- 
lieve he  has  spoken  the  truth. 

Yes,  and  I  shall  continue  to  believe  it  till 
sundown,  and  I  still  am  dreaming  of  a  joyful 
triumph.  I  had  one  before,  but  it  was  far 
from  joyful. 

To-morrow  evening  I  shall  go  to  see  Obo- 
janski  once  more;  and  I  shall  tremble  with 
great  fear. 

I  am  sure  my  answer  to  Janusz  will  be  de- 
layed. To-night  Smilowicz  and  Roslawski 


90  Kobiety 

accompanied  me  home  together.  I  cannot  say 
whether  I  shall  get  any  opportunity  for  a  pri- 
vate talk  with  him.  Perhaps  it  is  better  so: 
but,  then,  Janusz  is  waiting  for  his  answer 
down  in  Klosow. 

Roslawski  is  the  one  man  in  the  world  be- 
fore whose  gaze  my  eyes  must  droop.  That 
alone  can  throw  me  off  my  balance,  rob  me 
of  my  customary  untroubled  assurance;  for  it 
is  the  only  force  able  to  master  mine. 

Towards  the  end,  our  talk  turns  to  love  and 
marriage. 

The  latter  Smilowicz  looks  upon  from  an 
economic  standpoint,  and  thinks  it  is,  in  our 
present  conditions  of  life,  a  necessary  evil. 
All  the  same,  he  informs  Obojanski  that  a 
certain  mutual  acquaintance  of  theirs,  who 
married  not  long  ago,  is  perfectly  happy  with 
his  wife. 

"Ah,  yes,"  Obojanski  guardedly  observes, 
"in  the  first  months,  even  such  a  thing  is  not 
impossible." 

Roslawski's  face  puts  on  a  cold  smile.  In- 
deed, he  is  in  favour  of  marriage,  as  is  quite 
natural  with  a  man  who  has  sown  his  wild 
oats,  and  is  desirous  of  love  that  is  lawful. 
The  fastest  men  I  ever  knew  were  theoreti- 


Ice-Plains  91 

cally  in  favour  of  monogamy.  Imszanski, 
too,  always  told  Martha  that,  were  it  not  for 
the  fickleness  of  women  and  various  other  un- 
toward conditions,  he  would  be  happiest  with 
one  woman  and  one  alone. 

On  this  point,  Obojanski  is  a  sceptic;  this 
is  the  only  subject  on  which  he  can  speak 
wittily. 

"And  you, — do  you  intend  to  marry  for 
love?"  Roslawski  asks  me  suddenly,  with  a 
subtle  tinge  of  flippancy  in  his  tone,  such  as 
men  of  his  kind  always  use  in  speaking  to 
women :  an  attitude  with  him  quite  instinctive 
and  unreasoned,  since  he  is  very  far  from 
sharing  Obojanski's  prejudice  concerning  the 
inferiority  of  our  sex. 

A  sudden  qualm  of  terror  seizes  me,  but  I 
master  it,  and  say  with  a  tranquil  smile: 
"Your  question  makes  me  feel  as  if  under  ex- 
amination. Confess  now  that  you  are  at  pres- 
ent wanting  to  know  what  my  reply  will  be, 
not  what  I  really  intend  to  do." 

There  is  an  ironical  gleam  in  his  eyes. 

"You  may  take  my  word  for  it  that  I  am 
not,"  he  answers  emphatically. 

"In  that  case,  I'll  tell  you  as  much  as  I  my- 
self know.  If  I  marry  for  love,  it  will  not  last 


92  Kobiety 

very  long;  if,  on  the  contrary,  I  do  so  with 
judgment  and  out  of  a  conscious  conviction 
that  the  man  is  destined  for  me,  then  I  shall 
be  faithful  to  my  husband  all  my  life." 

"And  which  of  these  alternatives  do  you 
prefer?" 

"The  second,"  I  reply;  and  add  truthfully, 
"for  there  are  certain  classes  of  feeling  in 
which  I  object  to  changes." 

"Really?  But  you  would  have  the  same 
result,  even  if  you  married  for  love." 

"I  am  afraid  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  be- 

^lieve  in  the  eternal  duration  of  mere  feeling. 

/  Love  in  marriage,  as  a  rule,  becomes  in  time 

j     a  sort  of  mutuality  of  habit,  a  sense  of  soli- 

\    darity,  as  it  were,  and  now  and  then  even  a 

^brotherhood  of  minds.    It  is  just  in  such  cases 

that  divorce  would  be  advisable." 

"And  when  it  is  a  marriage  of  reason?" 

"Why,  then  the  question  is  correctly  stated 
from  the  first;  at  the  outset,  suitability  of 
characters  and  of  individualities  are  taken  into 
consideration,  so  as  to  prevent  any  possibility 
of  future  disagreement." 

"And  yet  it  is  possible  to  obtain  the  con- 
tinuance of  love  by  incessantly  watching  over 
it,  by  not  unf  requently  putting  on  a  mask,  and 


Ice-Plains  93 

by  keeping  private  certain  emotions  and 
states  of  mind  which  might  prejudice  one 
party  in  the  eyes  of  the  other." 

How  the  remembrance  of  Janusz  comes 
back  to  me  as  I  listen!  Of  all  this,  he  knew 
nothing  at  all. 

"I  doubt  whether  so  much  trouble  is  very 
profitable,"  I  return.  "The  game  is  hardly 
worth  the  candle." 

"And  yet  some  there  are,"  he  goes  on  to  say, 
"for  whom  present  bliss  has  no  value,  if  they 
know  beforehand  that  the  morrow  will  take  it 
away.  And  they  often  prefer  to  renounce  it 
entirely." 

The  words  are  spoken  calmly,  without  any 
apparent  significance;  yet  there  is  in  their 
tone,  I  fancy,  an  under-current  of  ominous 
import. 

"Well,"  I  say,  repressing  my  irrational 
dread,  "then  let  all  such  take  care  to  marry 
with  judgment." 

"Nevertheless,  to  give  love  and  get  in  its 
place  only  intellectuality  is  not  a  good  bar- 
gain, I  fear." 

Now — now  I  understand — and  I  almost 
feel  hatred  for  the  man.  Yes,  I  may  throw 


94  Kobiety 

myself  under  the  wheels  of  a  locomotive,  but 
never  will  I  say  I  do  that  out  of  love  for  it! 

"Reasonable  people  should  remember  that 
'the  heart  is  no  servant,'  and  that,  beyond  in- 
tellectual and  conscious  resolve,  we  can  find 
nothing  on  which  we  can  safely  count."  This 
I  say,  as  light-heartedly  and  as  smilingly  as  I 
can,  feeling  meanwhile  the  dismay  of  a  hor- 
rible misgiving — almost  a  certitude — clutch- 
ing at  my  heart. 

And  now  at  last  I  am  alone  with  Roslawski 
and  Obojanski.  I  remain  in  my  corner  all 
the  evening,  saying  little,  overwhelmed  with 
dread  of  the  coming  decisive  moment.  That 
tall,  red-haired  gentleman  in  glasses, — I  sim- 
ply detest  him! 

Roslawski  sets  to  playing  Wagner, — stiffly, 
correctly,  like  an  automaton.  His  playing 
grates  strongly  upon  my  nerves:  each  of  the 
notes  taps  on  my  heart-strings. 

Obojanski  is  enchanted.  He  goes  about  the 
room  on  tiptoe,  making  the  floor  creak  as  he 
walks ;  he  fetches  music  from  the  book-shelves 
for  Roslawski,  and  lays  them  in  heaps  on  the 
piano.  Now  and  again  he  glances  at  me,  and 
whispers,  almost  aloud:  "How  very  beauti- 


Ice-Plains  95 

full"  He  finally  brings  me  a  volume  of  some 
German  encyclopaedia,  and  opens  it  at  the 
article  "Wagner,"  which  he  expects  me  to 
read. 

I  am  so  upset  that  I  nearly  break  down. 
Resting  my  head  on  the  back  of  the  sofa,  I 
look  up  at  the  ceiling  to  swallow  down  my 
tears  as  they  well  up.  And  I  begin  to  weave 
fancies. 

A  wonderful  immemorial  forest,  through 
which,  clad  in  armour,  knights  are  riding  on 
white  steeds.  Most  lofty  oaks,  strong-limbed 
and  gnarled,  with  black  trunks  and  dark-blue 
foliage,  strike  their  roots  deep  into  the  ground. 
Amid  mosses  in  hue  like  malachite,  ferns  put 
forth  their  sprays  of  sea-green  lace.  Fairies 
dance  merrily  among  the  trees,  and  scatter 
round  them  pearls  of  ringing  laughter.  And 
far  away,  lost  in  reverie,  upon  a  dark,  en- 
chanted lake  there  floats  a  swan.  A  strange, 
clear,  chilly  splendour  illuminates  the  twi- 
light. 

All  at  once  a  thunderbolt,  a  red  thunder- 
bolt falls:  and  the  oak  forest  and  the  lake  van- 
ish into  the  depths  of  the  earth.  .  .  .  Yet 
thunderstorms  only  take  place  on  sultry  sum- 
mer days. 


96  Kobiety 

No,  no,  all  this  was  but  a  dream. 

Now  there  comes  before  me  the  infinite 
wilderness  of  my  own  ice-plains,  hard-frozen 
beneath  the  cold  and  glassy  skies.  I  am 
afraid,  I  am  horribly  afraid,  I  cannot  breathe, 
seeing  those  endless  plains  of  ice,  under  that 
canopy  of  green  and  frosty  light:  it  is  the 
kingdom  of  my  soul ! 

But  far  away,  at  the  sky-line,  where  without 
warmth  the  Aurora  Borealis  beams,  there 
stands  a  huge  statue,  a  basalt-hewn  statue. 
This  recks  not  of  the  unbounded  wilderness, 
nor  of  the  chilly  gleams  of  the  Northern 
Lights,  nor  of  the  stars,  those  silver  eyes  of 
Time.  Tranquil  and  undismayed  it  stands. 
That  is  Roslawski. 

On  I  march  towards  him,  plodding  through 
the  deep  and  drifting  snow;  at  his  feet,  I  fall 
upon  my  knees. 

And  I  beseech  him  to  hide  the  boundless 
wilderness  from  my  sight;  to  protect  me  from 
the  icy  air  of  death,  so  that  I  may  dwell  in 
this  land  of  my  soul,  and  yet  not  die.  "For 
behold,  this  day  I  am  weak  exceedingly,  this 
day  I  stand  in  fear  of  the  plains  of  ice." 

But  he  says:  "Here  in  the  snows  around 
me,  you  must  first  lay  out  a  garden  as  of  the 


Ice-Plains  97 

tropics;  and  yourself  must  blossom  into  a 
flame-red  and  purple  rose." 

And  I  make  answer:  "My  lord,  without 
the  light  of  the  sun,  how  is  any  rose  to  blow?" 

Once  more  a  thunderclap  resounds.  He-  is 
gone.  I  am  all  alone  amid  my  ice-plains: 
and  I  live  yet. 

Bound  I  am,  with  fetters  made  of  ice.  The 
silvery  wings  of  my  soul  are  glittering  under 
the  canopy  of  heaven,  and  in  the  greenish 
splendour  of  the  Northern  Lights.  She 
would  not  share  with  me  my  years  of  burning 
heat,  and  now  she  will  not  have  me  share  this 
realm  of  hers.  A  snake  is  lying  on  my  bosom, 
and,  coiled  about  my  neck,  sucks  the  warm 
blood  thence.  .  .  . 

We  bid  good-night  to  Obojanski,  and  go 
out  into  the  street  together. 

"I  have  to  tell  you  something;  or,  rather, 
I  have  one  question,  only  one,  to  put  to  you." 
These  are  my  first  words. 

"I  am  quite  at  your  service." 

From  the  instant  when  I  begin  to  speak, 
the  sense  of  dread  passes  away  from  me,  and 
an  immense  quietude  takes  its  place. 

"I  must,  however,  lay  down  one  condition. 
I  will  have  from  you  no  other  answer  save 


98  Kobiety 

the  word  Yes  or  No.  I  do  not  wish — and  this 
is  of  consequence  to  me — to  hear  any  com- 
ments whatever.  Do  you  agree?" 

"Most  willingly,"  he  returns,  with  a  smile; 
"the  condition  that  you  lay  down  I  certainly 
shall  keep." 

"You  must  know  then,"  I  go  on,  "that,  since 
I  became  acquainted  with  you,  I  have  known 
you  for  the  only  man  who  could  make  me 
happy.  Some  time  ago,  another  man,  one  who 
deserves  my  sympathy  and  whom  I  trust, 
asked  me  to  marry  him.  Being  of  opinion 
that,  in  the  last  resort,  the  knowledge  that  one 
is  greatly  loved  may  serve  as  a  substitute  for 
happiness,  I  have  taken  a  month  to  think  the 
matter  over.  My  decision  depends  upon  your 
answer.  I  ought  perhaps  to  add  that  I  can 
foresee  what  this  is  likely  to  be;  but  that  I  am 
very  anxious  to  get  absolute  certainty  on  this 
point,  lest  I  should  at  some  future  time  have 
to  reproach  myself  with  having  let  my  chance 
of  happiness  go  by." 

There  is  a  silence. 

"May  I  venture  to  ask  you  to  put  your  ques- 
tion in  a  more  definite  form?" 

"Are  you,  or  are  you  not,  willing  to  marry 
me?" 


Ice-Plains  99 

Another  silence. 

"No:  and  yet,  supposing  that  .  .  ." 

"Remember  my  condition." 

No  more  is  said. 

In  front  of  my  lodgings  we  bid  each  other 
a  calm  and  friendly  farewell. 

The  next  morning,  on  my  way  to  my  office, 
I  put  a  long  scented  envelope  into  a  post-box. 
It  is  addressed  to  Janusz. 

Nevertheless,  the  decision  which  it  contains 
is — not  to  marry  him. 

Yes,  I  am  now  the  bond-slave  of  my  soul: 
these  my  ice-plains,  it  is  no  longer  mine  to 
leave  them. 

I  have  done  with  suffering.  .  .  .  During 
all  these  long  days  and  nights,  I  have  not  shed 
one  tear.  I  do  not  suffer  now:  the  agony- 
delirium  has  passed  those  limits,  beyond 
which  no  difference  is  felt  between  joy  and 
misery,  beyond  which  there  is  no  night  of  woe, 
that  contrasts  with  day. 

In  the  still  autumn  twilight,  I  am  shut  up 
in  my  dark  and  lonely  room.  Lest  I  should 
awake  my  soul,  that  has  fallen  asleep,  I  am 
pacing  the  soft  carpet  with  noiseless  steps. 

I  am  in  terror  of  the  very  movements  which 


ioo  Kobiety 

I  myself  make.  Trembling  with  cold — or  is 
it  with  my  own  emptiness  of  heart? — and  lean- 
ing against  my  doorway  in  the  darkness, 
wrapped  in  the  folds  of  my  soft  shaggy  por- 
tiere, I  open  my  swooning  lips  to  utter  a 
soundless  cry,  and  look  staring  into  the  mo- 
bile fluttering  dark  with  tired  and  quiet  gaze. 

I  do  not  suffer;  I  exist — in  a  world  wherein 
the  night  of  woe  no  longer  is  a  contrast  with 
day,  wherein  there  prevails  a  tranquil  dusk, 
without  sun  and  without  stars. 

There  is  no  Ego  of  mine.  I  am  beyond 
existence  and  beyond  nothingness — in  that 
'  world  wherein  dies  the  immemorial  conflict 
between  dream  and  vigil;  where  Wrong, 
robed  in  her  queenly  purple,  is  no  longer 
shadowed  by  Vengeance,  in  her  pallid  green 
attire;  where  stony  Hatred  no  longer  hugs  in 
her  fierce  embrace  the  weeping  god  of  love; 
where  the  marble  statue  of  Pride  no  longer 
renders  homage  to  the  grim  spectre,  Fear; 
wherein  there  are  no  more  wretched  victories, 
nor  the  portentous  delights  of  worshipping 
oneself  and  the  Power  of  Self! 

No,  there  is  no  more  any  Ego  of  mine. 
...  I  am  in  a  world  to  which  even  the  un- 
limited fields  of  Infinity  cannot  reach,  for  it 


Ice-Plains  101 

was  everlastingly  beyond  all  limits.  I  am  in 
a  world  in  which  Duration  neither  flows  nor 
stands  still;  wherein  Solitude  is  not,  though 
neither  are  there  spirits  to  commune  with; 
where  there  is  only  no  solitude,  because  there 
is  no  Me. 

Do  I  suffer?  No.  I  am  in  a  world  where 
I  have  no  being. 

I  could  well  die,  if  I  chose:  but  my  body, 
well-favoured  as  it  is,  would  fain  not  part 
from  my  bright,  though  mournful  soul. 
Therefore  am  I  willing  to  live. 

But  there  is  nought  for  which  I  can  any 
longer  care ;  I  dwell  in  a  world  which  my  soul 
is  never  to  behold:  for  when  Death  comes, 
my  soul's  existence  will  be  over. 

Yet  not  because  nothingness  is  there.  To 
believe  that  there  is  nothingness,  one  must  in- 
deed have  an  intense  power  of  faith.  I  cannot 
bring  myself  to  accept  the  creed  of  nothing- 
ness. For  in  the  world  where  I  am  now, 
neither  Being  is,  nor  Non-Being;  there  is 
neither  the  Ego  nor  the  Non-Ego;  nor  has  the 
soul  ever  laid  her  icy  hand  upon  the  body: 
I  am  in  a  world  wherein  there  is  no  soul  of 
mine. 

My  soul  will  end  its  being  at  the  instant  of 


102  Kobiety 

Death,  not  because  that  world  is  a  world  of 
nothingness,  but  because  therein  is  no  such 
thing  as  indestructibility  of  substance. 

I  might,  if  I  chose,  die;  but  death  matters 
nothing  to  me.  To  solve  the  riddle  of  life,  I 
do  not  require  death.  For  now  I  know  all. 
I  know  that,  in  that  other  world,  knowledge 
and  ignorance  are  not  incompatible,  nor  is 
there  in  that  world  any  desire  to  know.  And 
therefore  I  shall  never  solve  the  riddle  of  life, 
because  I  have  solved  it  now. 

I  know  that  which  no  man  knows :  that  to 
read  the  riddle,  I  need  not  know  all  things. 
For  there  is  no  Me! 

And  I  am  indeed  in  a  world  which  contra- 
dicts our  world,  but  with  a  contradiction  in 
which  negation  and  assertion  are  the  same. 

But  in  one  thing  I  do  believe — the  only 
thing  that  is. 

And  that  thing  is :  No/ 

Such  a  No  as  does  not  contradict  Yes,  but 
means  what  No  means,  taken  together  with 
Yes. 

Such  a  No  as  Roslawski  said  to  me. 

And  if  I  suffer  nothing,  it  is  because  I  be- 
long to  a  world  wherein  joy  and  sorrow  are 
the  same. 


II 

THE  "GARDEN  OF  RED  FLOWERS" 

IMSZANSKI  was  patient  and  persevering, 
and  determined  to  take  no  repulse  as  final. 
In  the  end  he  had  the  good  luck  to  come  at 
the  right  time,  when  Martha  was  in  a  favour- 
able mood:  whereupon  she  relented,  gave  up 
all  her  objections,  and  married  him  very  will- 
ingly. 

For  close  on  a  year  after  their  marriage,  I 
had  no  sight  of  them.  They  were  travelling 
about  Europe,  and  Martha  had  never  been 
abroad.  Every  two  or  three  days  I  would  get 
a  post-card  from  her,  which  I  of  course  "read 
between  the  lines."  Plunged  though  she  was 
in  an  atmosphere  of  intense  bliss,  she  was  con- 
tinually revolving  the  thought  of  death  in  her 
mind.  But  that  is  probably  no  unfrequent 
phenomenon  in  such  cases. 

She  returned,  bringing  with  her  a  son  a  few 
months  of  age — returned  very  pale,  and  like 

103 


IO4  Kobiety 

a  shadow,  yet  prettier  than  she  had  ever  been 
before. 

Having  grown  much  thinner,  she  seems  to 
be  taller  now.  She  wears  her  dark  plaited 
hair  round  her  tiny  head,  like  a  crown.  Her 
age  is  thirty  or  thereabouts.  Imszanski,  though 
considerably  older,  seems  of  that  age  too. 

They  have  rented  a  flat  in  Warsaw,  and  in- 
sisted on  my  sharing  it  with  them.  But  I 
spend  the  best  part  of  my  day  in  the  office,  just 
as  in  former  times. 

To  me,  life  brings  nothing  new;  my  mem- 
ories are  mostly  colourless  or  grey.  Truly,  I 
am  disappointed  with  myself,  since  I  belong 
to  the  class  of  those  who  "give  great  promise" 
all  their  life. 

All  the  same,  though  I  cannot  overcome 
this,  my  "tristesse  de  vivre,"  I  daily  look  upon 
it  with  more  indifferent  serenity. 

You  at  first  look  straight  in  front  of  you. 
Then,  when  a  certain  point  has  been  passed, 
you  begin  to  look  behind  you.  Now,  this 
point  is  by  no  means  the  instant  when  happi- 
ness passes  you  by,  or  you  are  struck  some 
awful  blow,  waking  you  up  from  a  sweet  illu- 
sion; it  is  a  moment  which  may,  like  every 
other,  go  by  in  laughter  or  in  tears:  it  may 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      105 

even  be  slept  through;  and  you  do  not  know 
when  it  comes,  but  you  know  well  enough 
when  it  has  passed. 

For  me,  it  has  passed:  and  now  I  look  be- 
hind me.  Though  I  should  prefer  to  look 
nowhere  at  all.  I  look  back,  and  I  think  all 
that  was  perhaps  not  worth  such  a  fuss.  .  .  . 
And  yetl  .  .  . 

In  any  case,  I  have  learned  some  wisdom, 
and  wisdom  is  eternal.  There  remains  of  it 
enough  for  me  to  smile  in  my  solitude.  And 
there  remains  some  pride,  too, — the  pride  of 
knowing  that  I  am  what  I  am. 

On  returning  from  a  concert,  I  went  with 
my  friend,  Wiazewski,  to  Lipka,  to  meet  the 
company  we  usually  see  there. 

I  take  some  interest  in  the  atmosphere, 
reeking  and  tainted  though  it  is,  of  a  high- 
class  restaurant,  crowded  with  "gilded  youth," 
old  financiers,  beautiful  actresses,  and  demi- 
mondaines.  The  saloon  is  a  large  one,  lit  with 
wide-branched  chandeliers.  The  air  is  thick 
with  tobacco-smoke,  through  which  the 
sparkles  of  a  thousand  lights  and  the  brilliant 
notes  of  the  merry  orchestra  assail  both  eye 
and  ear.  The  ceiling  is  painted  in  antique 


io6  Kobiety 

style.  The  background  is  all  speckled  with 
bright  stains — blots  of  white  napery  on  the 
tables,  and  candles  shaded  with  glass  "lam- 
pions" of  various  tints,  forming  spots  of  many 
a  colour.  There  is  a  twinkling  mingled  with 
a  tinkling:  the  rays  of  electric  blossoms  over 
our  heads,  and  around  us  the  jingling  of  cups 
and  glasses,  join  together  in  a  seething  tumult. 
This  is  a  life  apart.  Not  the  daily  round 
of  appearances — the  mere  mask  which  hides 
life, — but  life  immediate,  naked,  real.  You 
see  here  that  in  spite  of  all  it  is  possible  to  be 
merry  and  to  care  for  nothing.  Here  are  no 
unsightly  garments,  no  clumsy  inartistic  mo- 
tions; no  children  (that  most  objectionable 
element  in  life!)  ;  no  "respectable"  women, 
who  are  to  be  recognized  by  their  ugliness, 
their  want  of  style  and  charm,  their  tedious- 
ness  and  stupidity,  and  the  fact  that,  when 
they  think  at  all,  they  are  always  hopelessly 
depressed.  This  is  a  very  good  illustration  of 
the  "Law  of  Selection":  in  marriage,  the 
qualities  of  virtue  and  fidelity  are  of  more  ac- 
count as  guarantees  of  felicity  than  such  en- 
dowments as  beauty  and  health.  Beautiful 
women  of  a  lively  temperament  are  set  aside 
as  too  knowing,  too  exacting,  and  of  doubtful 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      107 

trustworthiness:  and  so  they  go  to  swell  the 
ranks  of  the  fallen. 

For  my  own  part,  did  I  not  fear  the  accusa- 
tion of  anti-social  tendencies,  I  would,  from 
the  height  of  my  cheerless  philosophical  emi- 
nence, declare  that  I  view  the  "frail  sister- 
hood," as  an  institution,  without  intolerance. 
Therein  breathes  something  that  tells  of  times 
gone  by:  something  existing,  but  of  which 
men  do  not  speak.  There  exist  human  beings, 
scorned  as  a  class,  whatever  their  personal 
endowments  may  be,  with  whom  no  other  class 
is  allowed  to  come  in  contact,  under  pain  of 
defilement: — not  unlike  pariahs.  These  be- 
ings are  to  be  bartered  for  precious  metals  by 
means  of  a  secret  contract — bought  as  the 
slaves  of  ancient  times  were  bought.  Their 
existence  is  kept  a  secret  quite  disinterestedly, 
for  the  mere  sake  of  the  secret  itself:  every 
one  knows  all  about  them.  In  our  days,  so 
hyper-civilized,  so  deprived  of  all  poetry  by 
reason  of  excessive  culture,  this  is  a  most  as- 
tonishing state  of  things. 

Nearly  every  man  here  present  has  a  wife, 
actual  or  intended:  but  these  are  not  permitted 
to  enter:  they  would  be  by  far  too  much  out  of 
place. 


io8  Kobiety 

No  doubt,  their  wives,  having  put  the  chil- 
dren to  bed,  had  some  words  with  the  servant 
over  the  daily  account  of  money  spent,  and 
put  on  a  clean  night-gown  (of  a  wretchedly 
bad  cut,  by  the  way),  say  their  prayers  and 
lay  themselves  down  to  sleep  under  the  red 
woolen  coverlet,  thinking  all  the  time:  "How 
late  he  always  returns  after  these  meetings!" 
or  else  she  may  bite  her  nails  with  fury,  re- 
volving in  her  mind  the  idea  of  another  angry 
scene  with  her  husband — a  scene  foredoomed 
as  heretofore  to  be  without  effect.  Or  again, 
in  agonized  resignation,  she  may  bend  over 
the  baby's  cradle,  and  murmur  mournfully, 
with  naive  pathos:  "For  your  sake,  my 
child!"  And  the  girls  whose  troths  are 
plighted  have  long  ago  gone  to  sleep  under 
the  wing  of  their  domestic  guardians,  lulled 
to  slumber  with  some  such  sweet  fancies  as: 
"Most  men  have  intrigues  before  they  marry: 
he,  and  he  alone,  has  surely  none."  And  so 
forth.  .  .  . 

They  are  foolish — but  fortunate,  because 
not  allowed  to  come  in  here. 

Ah!  once  upon  a  time,  in  the  days  of  my 
childish  marvellings,  how  bitterly  did  I  weep 
over  all  these  things! 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"       109 

"Stephen,  how  late  is  it?"  I  asked  Wiazew- 
ski. 

"It  will  soon  be  midnight.  Our  friends  are 
not  coming,  it  would  seem.  Are  you  in  a 
hurry  to  get  home?" 

"I  never  am ;  I  have  got  a  latch-key,  and  so 
wake  nobody  when  I  come  in.  But  are  you 
not  yourself  sometimes  engaged  of  an  eve- 
ning?" 

He  shook  his  head,  his  teeth  shining  good- 
humouredly  in  a  friendly  smile. 

"You  know  perfectly  well  that  there  is  not 
an  assignation  I  would  not  set  aside  to  spend 
an  evening  with  you.    To  me,  friendship  is  IP) 
r^boon  far  rarer  and  far  more  precious  than/ 
I  love." 

L  "I  do  not  hold  with  you  at  all.  I  have 
enough  of  the  cold  consideration  granted  me 
by  the  world." 

Stephen  smiled  again. 

"There  is  no  help  for  it,  Janka,"  he  said. 

y'  "Men  of  our  times  are  too  weakly  to  love  an 

V.   all-around  woman :  the  very  thought  of  one 

gives  them  an  unpleasant  shock.    The  day  for 

types  of  women  so  extremely  complex  as  you 

are  has  now  gone  by;  at  present  women  are 

preferred  who  display  some  very  distinct  and 


no  Kobiety 

special  characteristic:  especially  either  primi- 
tive natures,  or  such  as  have  been  depraved  by 
civilization;  or  types  of  spirituality  or  of  sen- 
suality; women  either  of  very  well-balanced 
minds,  or  nervous  even  to  hysteria ;  or,  again, 
those  in  whom  warmth  of  heart  or  a  distin- 
guished bearing  prevails.  And  that  is  why  the 
monogamic  instinct  is  now  dying  out  com- 
pletely: in  a  few  years'  time,  it  will  be  no 


more." 


Wiazewski  was  on  the  war-path,  the  topic 
being  a  favourite  one  of  his. 

"For  how  can  a  man  be  true  to  his  wife,  if 
he  takes  her  'for  better,  for  worse,  .  .  .  till 
death  do  them  part,'  only,  let  us  say,  to  kiss  a 
mole  that  she  has  on  her  neck,  just  under  her 
left  ear?  Monogamy  requires  exceedingly 
strong,  rich,  abundant  natures." 

"Then  it  would  follow  that  our  near  future 
would  witness  our  return  to  the  hetairism  of 
primaeval  times?" 

"No  doubt;  for  both  the  primitive  instincts 
of  the  senses,  and  their  ultra-refined  activity, 
have  identically  the  same  result." 

A  handsome  woman,  with  strikingly  orig- 
inal features,  accompanied  by  an  elderly  man, 
clean-shaven  (an  actor  probably)  went  by 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"       HI 

near  our  table.  She  too  had  the  look  of  an 
actress. 

Wiazewski's  eyes  followed  her  with  keen 
scrutiny. 

"A  fine  woman,"  I  remarked. 

He  turned  his  eyes  away  from  her. 

"She  is  not  my  sort,"  he  replied.  "Far  too 
cultured  for  my  taste." 

Then  he  again  returned  to  the  subject. 

"Hetairism,  yes.  Yes,  undoubtedly.  But 
if  it  all  depended  upon  me,  I  should  wish  for 
one  slight  restriction.  .  .  .  You  see,  one  of 
the  most  genial  types  of  womanhood  is  the 
wifely  type:  that  of  a  woman  faithful,  trust- 
worthy, absolutely  your  own.  ...  It  were 
desirable  that  such  a  type  should  not  perish 
entirely.  But  I  should  wish  her  only  as  a 
class  to  contrast  with  others,  and  as  a  haven  of 
rest,  when  wearied  with  those." 

I  was  gazing  at  the  pretty  Frenchwoman; 
suddenly  I  saw  a  delighted  expression  flash 
over  her  striking  and  reposeful  face,  some- 
what harem-like  in  its  beauty.  I  instinctively 
followed  her  glance,  and — not  without  some- 
what of  embarrassed  astonishment — discov- 
ered Imszanski.  He  was  just  entering  from 
the  doorway,  and  going  through  the  saloon, 


112  Kobiety 

distributing  on  all  sides  bows  or  smiles,  as  a 
beautiful  woman  does  flowers.  His  wonder- 
fully sweet  and  dreamy  eyes  were  seeking 
some  one  in  the  room. 

A  sudden  flash  lit  them  up,  as  they  met  the 
gaze  of  the  handsome  Frenchwoman. 

Imszanski,  on  his  way  to  them,  happened  to 
see  me,  and  Wiazewski  in  my  company. 

Directly,  and  without  showing  the  least  sur- 
prise or  embarrassment,  he  changed  his  ex- 
pression and  saluted  us  with  urbane  cordial- 
ity, and  though  he  had  just  gone  past  our  table, 
he  returned,  shook  hands,  and  begged  leave 
to  sit  down  beside  us. 

The  Frenchwoman  at  the  neighbouring  ta- 
ble was  just  putting  on  her  gloves,  while  the 
actor  paid  the  bill.  I  should  very  willingly 
have  told  Imszanski  not  to  mind  about  us,  but 
go  on  to  his  acquaintances,  who  we  could  see 
were  expecting  him.  But  I  refrained,  not 
wishing  to  lay  on  his  shoulders  a  burden  of 
gratitude  for  keeping  this  matter  concealed 
from  Martha,  which  might  later  have  proved 
irksome  to  him. 

Stephen,  too,  understood. 

"We  are  here,"  he  presently  said,  "waiting 
for  Madame  Wildenhoff,  Owinski  with  his 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      113 

intended,  and  Czolhanski.  It  is  rather  late 
now:  I  doubt  whether  they  are  going  to  turn 
up." 

Imszanski  turned  aside  to  say  something  to 
a  waiter,  when  he  noted  with  satisfaction  that 
the  actors  had  left  the  saloon. 

He  then  said  he  hoped  and  trusted  that  we 
would  not  look  upon  him  as  an  intruder, 
though  he  had  thrust  himself  on  us  in  such  a 
way. 

Czolhanski,  a  journalist,  arrived  at  about 
one  o'clock,  together  with  Owinski  and  his 
fiancee,  Miss  Gina  Wartoslawska,  whom  I  had 
seen  several  times  previously  at  Imszanski's. 

Her  real  name  is  Regina;  but  she  is  called 
Gina.  In  the  movements  of  her  lithe  elastic 
figure  is  a  sort  of  snake-like  suppleness,  which 
tells  us  of  a  nervous  nature,  burning  with  a 
passion  almost  painfully  suppressed.  She  is 
like  a  tame  panther.  Her  eyes,  long,  narrow, 
partly  concealed  beneath  thin  lids,  wander 
hither  and  thither  about  the  floor  with  a 
drooping,  apathetic  look.  Her  lips  are  broad, 
flattened  as  it  were  by  many  kisses,  moist  and 
crimson  as  if  they  bled.  And,  with  all  that, 
there  is  in  her  something  of  the  type  of  a 
priestess. 


114  Kobiety 

She  came  in,  drawing  black  gloves  off  her 
slender  hands,  greeted  us  with  an  unsmiling 
face,  and  at  once  called  out  to  a  waiter  who 
was  passing  by: 

"A  glass  of  water!" 

She  drank  the  whole  glass  at  one  draught, 
and  sat  down  at  some  distance  from  the  table, 
with  her  head  bent  forward,  and  her  hands 
clasped  over  her  knees.  Owinski  took  a  seat 
close  beside  her. 

"Czolhanski,"  he  told  us,  "has  only  just  got 
through  his  critique  of  the  leading  actress  in 
to-night's  play.  We  had  to  stay  for  him  in  the 
editor's  waiting-room." 

"Ah,"  grumbled  the  critic,  "it's  beastly,  this 
work  all  done  to  order  and  at  railway  speed! 
Such  a  piece  as  that  ought  to  be  thought  over 
till  it  is  possible  to  form  a  definite  judgment 
upon  it.  As  it  is,  we  are  forced  to  save  the 
situation  by  means  of  a  lot  of  sententious  gen- 
eralities." 

At  last,  Madame  Wildenhoff  arrived  with 
her  husband.  At  the  unexpected  sight  of 
Imszanski  in  our  company,  a  deep  blush  man- 
tled her  face.  She  seated  herself  next  to  Gina, 
and  burst  into  a  fit  of  chuckling,  shading  her 
eyes  with  beautiful  hands  that  carried  many 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      115 

a  ring.  All  this  was  rather  unusual  and  dis- 
quieting. Imszanski  flushed  slightly;  a  warm 
haze,  so  thin  that  it  could  scarce  be  seen,  be- 
dimmed  his  eyes,  and  his  long  lashes  drooped 
over  them. 

Wildenhoff,  an  unpleasant  cut-and-dried 
sort  of  man,  whose  humour  inclined  to  sar- 
castic silence,  proposed  that  we  should  pass 
into  a  private  room.  She  protested. 

"Oh,  no!  I  dearly  love  noise  and  music  and 
an  uproar  all  about  me.  We  had  better  stay 
here,  hadn't  we?" 

Wildenhoff  smiled  at  his  wife  and  was  pres- 
ently deep  in  study  of  the  bill  of  fare. 

She  again  set  to  laughing  without  any 
cause:  a  disquieting  sort  of  chuckle,  with 
something  like  a  sob  now  and  then. 

I  glanced  at  the  two  couples,  feeling  a 
twinge  of  envy.  "There  is  love  between 
them."  .  .  . 

Oh,  but  all  that  was  so  very,  very  long  ago! 

I  wish  Stephen  would  fall  in  love  with  me. 
But  he  is  always  running  after  some  theory  or 
other.  At  times  he  is  as  droll  as  a  boarding- 
:school  girl.  I  do  believe  his  friendship  for 
me  to  be  absolutely  disinterested.  He,  on  his 
side,  declares  that  a  handsome  woman,  as  such, 


n6  Kobiety 

means  nothing  to  him.  The  type  he  loves  is 
uncultured,  shallow-brained  animality. 

He  is  as  yet  too  youthful.    Men's  taste  for 

/women    more    spiritualized,    more    cultured, 

more  quick-witted,  is  only  a  reaction :  it  shows 

a  decline  in  the  vital  forces,  and  tells  of  old 

age  about  to  set  in. 

All  the  time  of  our  return  home,  he,  rather 
in  the  clouds,  holds  forth  with  artificial  ani- 
mation. 

"With  you,  Janka,  I  could  well  live  alone 
in  a  wilderness,  were  you  even  twice  as  beau- 
tiful as  you  are — and  never  remember  that  I 
was  in  presence  of  a  being  of  the  other  sex. 
And,  indeed,  this  is  the  most  natural  thing  in 
the  world :  if  such  a  thought  ever  entered  my 
brain,  I  should  feel  humiliated  that  a  woman 
was  mentally  my  equal." 

"But  is  it  with  perfect  disinterestedness  that 
you  have  chosen  a  pretty  young  woman  for 
your  best  friend?" 

"Why  should  I  not  do  so?  That  gives  me 
the  advantage  of  a  double  pleasure:  not  only 
can  I  enjoy  your  conversation;  I  can  enjoy 
your  appearance  as  well." 

"You  might  just  as  easily  take  a  handsome 
man  for  your  friend." 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers'*       117 

/  "Yes,  but  then  beauty  in  a  woman  generally 
/  accompanies  intelligence ;  whereas  good-look- 
ing men  are,  as  a  rule,  rather  foolish.  More- 
v  over,  however  objectively  I  strive  to  judge  of 
things,  I  must  confess  that  a  woman's  body  is 
more  handsome  than  a  man's." 

"And  what  of  her  mind?" 

"Why,  she  has  none:  I  mean  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  a  feminine  mind.  Though,  look 
you,  it  is  not  unlikely  that  women  also  have 
minds.  There  is  nothing  sexual  about  the 
brain,  either  way." 

~"Yet  you  have  always  said  I  had  the  mind 
of  a  man." 

"I  was  wrong;  as  a  friend,  you  are  neither 
male  nor  female.  You  are  something  that  I 
set  in  a  class  apart;  and  I  want  you  to  do  the 
same  by  me." 

At  our  door,  I  take  leave  of  the  whole  com- 
pany. Imszanski  desires  to  go  on  with  "the 
ladies"  a  little  farther,  but  he  is  back  at  once. 
I  can  guess  why.  .  .  . 

The  Imszanskis  are,  as  they  have  given 
out,  "At  Home"  on  Sundays.  From  three  till 
dinner-time,  the  door  is  practically  open  to  all. 
These  "At  Homes"  are  formal,  tedious,  and 


n8  Kobiety 

rather  pretentious  affairs.  There  are,  besides, 
but  few  people  who  come;  for  Imszanski  has 
no  acquaintances  with  whom  he  is  on  really 
cordial  terms. 

But  I  like  these  Sundays:  they  soothe  my 
nerves  as  warm  baths  do.  With  the  people 
who  come,  I  need  not  attempt  to  keep  up  any 
appearance  of  truthfulness.  On  the  contrary, 
I  say  very  far-fetched  and  most  fantastic 
things — things,  besides,  that  I  know  not  to  be 
likely  to  interest  any  one  present. 

But  here  is  the  field  wherein  Imszanski 
bears  away  the  palm.  Never  are  his  move- 
ments more  elegant,  his  smiles  more  cordial, 
his  glances  more  winning.  No  one  can  better 
than  he  deal  out  the  small  change  of  social 
amenities  in  his  looks,  his  superficial  judg- 
ments on  literature  and  on  art;  none,  when 
addressing  a  compliment  to  a  woman,  can 

I  more  subtly  envelope  what  he  means  in  a  mist 
of  allusions. 

/  Both  husband  and  wife  appear  to  advan- 
tage. He,  with  the  perfect  culture  of  his  an- 
cient and  noble  descent,  is  simply  enchanting. 
Martha  is  a  contrast  to  him,  as  standing  for 
something  newer,  but  deeper:  the  culture 
given  by  unassuageable  sorrow,  the  concen- 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"       119 

trated  reverie  seen  in  the  sad  looks  of  those 
dark-blue  eyes,  albeit  a  kind  smile  always 
flutters  on  her  parched  red  lips. 

Now  and  again,  the  Wildenhoffs  come  here 
on  Sundays.  They  produce  a  most  interest- 
ing effect.  Everybody  is  saying  that  Madame 
has  an  intrigue  with  Imszanski.  Martha 
knows  that,  and  every  one  knows  that  Martha 
knows:  and  she  feigns  ignorance,  though 
aware  that  no  one  believes  her.  So  here  is  be- 
ing piled  up  an  immense  heap  of  lies:  which 
is  a  curious  situation,  and  as  such  not  unpleas- 
ing  to  me. 

Of  Madame  Wildenhoff,  Lombroso  would 
have  said  that  she  belonged  to  the  class  of 
courtesans  "by  right  of  birth."  Her  snowy 
flesh,  her  golden  hair,  her  brows,  blackly 
looming  above  azure  eyes,  her  rosy  cheeks  and 
scarlet  mouth, — the  whole  of  this  fairy  colour- 
ing gives  an  appearance  of  complete  artificial- 
ity; and  her  wonderful  shape  and  inborn  tal- 
ent for  coquetry  make  one  regret  that  such 
gifts  should  have  been  lost  on  such  a  very  un- 
suitable field  of  action.  For  I  myself  have 
not  the  least  doubt  that  need  of  money  is  but 
a  secondary  motive  with  those  who  join  the 
"frail  sisterhood."  Were  it,  as  is  generally 


120  Kobiety 

supposed,  the  chief  inducement,  what  should 
force  men  to  lead  lives  so  similar  to  the  lives 
of  demi-mondaines? 

—  I  like  to  watch  Imszanski  with  her,  playing 
the  part  of  the  host.  Nothing,  it  would  seem, 
nothing  in  the  whole  world  can  possibly  throw 
him  off  his  balance.  He  greets  her  just  as  he 
would  any  other  visitor,  with  a  set  "So- 
pleased-to-meet-you"  sort  of  smile;  gives  her 
as  much  of  his  time  as  he  does  to  any  of  the 
women  there;  and  converses  with  her,  partly 
flirting,  partly  freezing  her  with  the  haughty 
consciousness  of  his  preeminence  as  a  draw- 
ing-room "lion."  He  makes  no  endeavour  to 
conceal  his  liking  for  her,  but  shows  just  as 
much  as  it  becomes  him  to  have  for  any  young 
and  handsome  woman.  It  would  be  a  breach 
of  the  laws  of  hospitality,  if  he  had  not  for 
each  of  these  a  few  discreet  compliments,  and 
for  each  a  look  of  warm  admiration,  beaming 
from  those  ever  half-curtained  almond  eyes. 
Orcio  is  sometimes  called  in  from  the 
nursery;  and  in  he  comes — a  little  fair-haired 
boy  in  black  velvet,  with  a  superb  collar  of 
yellowish  lace.  The  ladies  talk  to  him  in 
French,  in  order  to  praise  his  accent. 


To-day  the  following  conversation  took 
place: 

"Qui  aimes-tu  davantage,  Georges, — papa 
ou  maman?"  was  the  question  put  to  him  by 
Madame  Wildenhoff,  who,  her  hand  in  a 
white  glove  of  Danish  leather,  was  stroking 
the  boy's  curls  with  a  blandishing  smile. 

"C'est  papa,"  was  Orcio's  reply. 

"Et  pourquoi  done?" 

"Parce  que  maman  ne  rit  jamaisf 

Whereupon  everybody  set  hurriedly  to  ex- 
patiate upon  the  accomplishments  of  Orcio, — 
who  is  not  yet  four!  This  they  did,  wishing 
to  hide  a  certain  confusion  felt:  that  enfant 
terrible  had  so  unconsciously  touched  on  a 
matter  that  every  one  knew,  but  no  one  talked 
about. 

Madame  Wildenhoff,  who  no  doubt  ex- 
pected the  boy's  answer,  and  had  perhaps 
elicited  it  purposely,  was  the  only  person  to 
underline  its  meaning;  she  let  her  long  eye- 
lashes droop  over  her  rosy  cheeks,  pretending 
to  be  shocked  at  the  unseemly  associations  that 
it  had  by  her  means  called  up. 

Martha  laughed  in  merry  contradiction  of 
what  Orcio  had  just  said;  then,  kissing  his 
fair  brow,  she  told  him  to  make  a  nice  bow 


122  Kobiety 

to  the  company  and  go  back  to  the  nursery 
with  the  maid. 

Society  is  irksome  to  Martha  now.  We  two 
often  went  together  formerly  to  the  theatre  or 
to  a  concert:  at  present  she  cares  no  more  to 

I  mostly  spend  my  evenings  with  her,  in 
interminable  conversations.  She  either  relates 
something  to  me,  or  else  she  "gives  sorrow 
words."  I  listen. 

She  is  just  now  much  grieved  that  her  hus- 
band Witold  has  for  nearly  a  fortnight  hardly 
ever  been  at  home.  Some  days  we  even  dine 
without  him. 

"It  is  surely  so,"  she  was  saying  yesterday. 
"He  enjoys  his  manhood  to  the  full:  every- 
thing is  his.  There,  he  has  'Bohemian'  so- 
ciety, revelling,  fast  people,  singing,  cham- 
pagne, flowers,  and  forgetfulness:  here,  he 
finds  the  pure  and  quiet  light  of  the  domestic 
fireside,  the  delights  of  fatherhood,  the  love 
of  a  faithful  wife.  When  he  is  tired  of  one 
sort  of  pleasure,  why  then  he  tries  the  other. 
.  .  .  And  we — we  are  all  crippled,  helpless 
things— all !" 

Silence  for  a  moment. 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"       123 

"There  he  gets  his  amusement  at  the  ex- 
pense of  those  poor  weaklings,  whose  souls 
have  been  wrenched  away  from  them,  who 
have  lost  the  feeling  of  their  human  dignity, 
the  consciousness  of  their  right  to  live,  even 
the  very  sense  of  pleasure;  who  groan  under 
that  most  unjust  burden,  their  own  self-con- 
tempt; who  feel  the  continual  oppression  of  a 
guilt  which  does  not  exist,  and  for  whom  the 
first  wrinkle  is  as  a  sentence  of  death. 

"But  on  his  domestic  hearth  there  beams 
another  fire,  and  beams  on  another  kind  of 
weakling;  a  strange  creature,  now  no  longer 
able  to  descend  into  Life's  hurly-burly;  for 
whom  certain  deeds,  for  many  a  century  re- 
garded with  scorn,  have  through  long  hered- 
ity of  atavistic  feelings  become  really  loath- 
some. .  .  . 

"Our  duty  is  to  amuse  them — the  lords  of 
life  and  death — with  the  effects  of  contrast; 
that  they  may  have  the  assurance  of  having 
experienced  the  whole  gamut  of  emotions, 
that  they  may  enjoy  their  manhood  to  the 
full." 

When  Witold  came  home  to-day  from  the 
club  (which  was  at  about  noon)  Martha  re- 
ceived him  in  a  beautiful  white  peignoir, 


124  Kobiety 

trimmed  with  Angora  fur,  and  asked  him 
whether  he  had  yet  breakfasted.  He  thanked 
her  graciously,  kissed  her  hand  and  brow,  and 
desired  to  see  Orcio. 

Martha  changed  colour.  She  is  not  so 
jealous,  even  of  women,  as  she  is  of  her  beau- 
tiful little  boy,  perhaps  because  he  is  with  her 
constantly. 

The  nursemaid  brought  Orcio,  who  at  once 
jumped  on  to  his  father's  knee,  and  began 
talking  at  the  top  of  his  voice  about  a  number 
of  things  which  had  happened  to  interest  him 
since  the  day  before. 

Imszanski  was  enchanted  with  the  little  one, 
and  kissed  his  rosy  face. 

For  men  like  him,  there  is  something  in- 
comparably sublime  and  public-spirited  in 
,the  fact  of  being  a  father;  this  they  hold  to  be 
the  only  thing  that  compensates  and  atones  for 
the  life  they  lead. 

Martha  shrank  away;  standing  at  a  dis- 
tance, fury  in  her  heart  and  a  smile  on  her 
face,  she  looked  on  at  the  father  caressing  his 
boy. 

"Look,  you,"  she  whispered  to  me,  "this — 
this  is  my  vocation,  this  the  mission  of  my 
life;  all  the  pain  I  have  undergone,  all  the 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      125 

rage  of  my  never-ending  and  vain  revolt,  all 
my  disappointed  existence;  all  these  have 
been,  only  that  they  two  should  sit  here  thus, 
forgetting  me  entirely;  and  that  all  the  wrong 
done  to  me  by  the  father  should  come  to  life 
again  in  that  son  of  his!" 

But  Witold,  having  caressed  Orcio,  went 
to  bed.  Not  until  the  evening  did  he  wake 
up,  fresh  and  hearty-looking,  to  dine  with  us, 
kiss  Martha's  hand,  retail  with  lively  wit  sev- 
eral stories  then  going  the  round  of  the  town, 
and  make  his  way  to  the  club  once  more. 

In  his  love-affairs,  Wiazewski  is  just  as 
fickle  and  as  insatiable  as  Imszanski ;  but  their 
"spheres  of  influence"  are  different.  Wiazew- 
ski has  a  liking  for  seamstresses,  shop-assist- 
ants, and  so  forth;  whereas  Imszanski  is  spe- 
cially interested  in  cocottes  (even  his  intrigue 
with  Madame  Wildenhoff  is  a  case  in  point). 
Neither  of  the  two  has  any  great  liking  for 
the  other,  in  spite  of  their  mutually  courteous 
bearing  at  all  times.  Imszanski  has  against 
my  friend  that  he  is  too  democratic :  whereas 
Wiazewski  looks  on  Imszanski  as  a  fool. 

The  latter  explains  his  dislike  for  demi- 
mondaines  thus: 


126  Kobiety 

"I  have  a  great  liking  for  misdeeds,  but  not 
when  committed  by  professional  criminals." 

The  art  of  playing  with  his  victims  has 
been  brought  by  him  to  the  acme  of  perfec- 
tion. To  this  end,  he  employs  what  natural- 
ists call  "mimicry."  His  features  being 
rather  common,  he  has  no  trouble  in  putting 
a  girl  off  her  guard;  he  makes  up  as  a  com- 
mercial man,  or  a  lackey,  or  a  waiter;  and  in 
such  parts  he  expresses  himself  most  elo- 
quently in  the  slang  of  those  classes,  which  he 
has  picked  up  to  perfection. 

He  is  a  thorough  expert  in  the  art  of  get- 
ting into  touch  with  the  minds  of  such  people; 
and  the  ease  with  which  he  finds  his  way 
through  a  labyrinth  of  ideas  quite  unknown 
to  us  is  truly  admirable. 

On  principle,  he  is  for  continual  change; 
but  latterly  he  has  been  making  an  excep- 
tion, and  declares  he  has  hit  upon  the  right 
sort,  or  nearly  so.  For  some  time  he  has  been 
"keeping  company"  with  a  girl,  whom  he  has, 
on  account  of  her  exceptional  qualities,  distin- 
guished from  the  common  herd.  I  once  saw 
her  at  his  lodgings  and  was  struck  with  her 
good  looks. 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"       127 

He  has  been  reading  a  letter  from  her  to- 
day. I  asked  him  to  give  it  to  me  as  a  "docu- 
ment," which  he  very  readily  consented  to  do. 

It  runs  thus: 

"Dear  Stephen  I  must  tell  you  about  some- 
thing that  is  Roman  the  intended  husband 
of  Genka  came  to  see  me  at  the  shop  yester- 
day evening  and  he  set  a-talking  to  me  this 
way  don't  I  have  no  notion  where  Genka  is 
so  I  answer  back  what  business  of  mine  is  that 
and  he  just  says  don't  you  make  believe  for 
Genka  is  in  Krucza  with  that  there  mechanic 
and  he  keeps  her  I  hear  is  in  love  with  her 
but  I'll  pay  him  out  for  it,  only  the  street 
and  the  number  where  he  lives  are  gone  clean 
out  of  my  head  can  you  tell  me  I  know  his 
name  is  Stephen  and  I  answer  this  way 
don't  you  go  worriting  an  honest  fellow  for 
he  don't  have  nothing  to  say  to  no  girls  let 
alone  such  hussies  as  Genka  he  asked  me 
where  you  lived  and  I  said  Krucza  number 
129  fourth  floor  and  Stephen  Tworkowski  is 
your  name  and  he  said  thankee  and  hooked  it 
and  he  says  he'll  ask  the  porter  in  Wspolna 
and  I  said  don't  you  poke  your  nose  in  or 


128  Kobiety 

you'll  get  your  head  punched  as  you  did  once 
before  when  you  flung  dirt  at  me  so  if  he 
comes  you  tell  him  so  and  give  the  beast  a 
talking  to.  ...  And  something  else  my  dear 
darling  ideal  I  write  this  I  love  you  to 
distraction  I  am  regularly  off  my  head  with 
thinking  of  you  and  I  have  your  photo  before 
me  and  kiss  it  night  and  day.  O  God  how  I 
love  him  more  than  my  life  more  than  my 
faith  I  can't  tell  what  sin  I  have  sinned  that 
I  have  to  pay  so  dear  and  you  dearest  you  are 
so  cold  and  you'll  bring  me  to  my  grave  with 
your  coldness  and  in  no  time  too  I  don't  know 
but  it  seems  to  me  you  told  Elizabeth  I  slept 
in  Hoza  and  she  makes  a  mock  of  me  and  I 
don't  care  a  fig  for  I  am  daft  for  your  love 
no  one  won't  cure  me  and  no  one  can't  it's 
too  late  I  loved  you  when  I  saw  you  first 
and  shall  till  my  life  ends  and  so  long  as  I 
don't  put  an  end  to  it  and  who  will  make  me 
do  that  but  you  Stephen  mv  dearest  pet  and 
sweetheart. 

"I  end  this  scrawl  of  mine  throwing  away 
my  pen  crying  my  eyes  out  and  dying  of  hun- 
ger for  that  blessed  Sunday. 

"Your  unhappy  or  rather  love-sick 

HELA." 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"       129 

Quite  aware  that  I  am  doing  wrong,  I  let 
Martha  look  back  into  her  past;  and  I  even 
question  her  myself  so  as  to  bring  before  her 
eyes  the  long  dismal  perspective  of  her 
wounded  love.  I  listen  in  the  manner  she 
likes  best,  calmly  and  without  any  show  of 
compassion.  Nor  have  I  any  for  her,  any 
more  than  for  a  fish  that  must  needs  live  in 
cold  water,  or  for  a  bat  that  cannot  bear  the 
sunlight.  Martha  likes  to  suffer,  and — per- 
haps for  this  very  reason — she  is  compelled  to 
suffer.  Indeed,  she  is  something  of  a  Sybarite 
in  her  almost  abnormal  sensitiveness  to  pain. 
She  is  fond  of  telling  me  all  the  petty  foolish 
troubles  of  an  injured  wife;  and  this  procures 
her  an  odd  sense  of  what  may  be  called  a  sort 
of  enjoyment. 

"But,  all  the  same,  there  was  a  time  once 
when  he  loved  you,  did  he  not?" 

"Oh,  Witold  declares  that  up  to  now  he 
has  loved  none  but  me!" 

"Well,  well;  but  then  at  what  time  did  this 
— the  present  phase  begin?  For  some  time  at 
least,  he  must  have  been  faithful  to  you." 

"Oh,  yes,  for  a  few  months.  Quite  at  the 
beginning.  Though  I  myself  was  never 
happy.  .  .  .  First  of  all,  during  the  six 


130  Kobiety 

weeks  before  our  wedding,  I  was  constantly 
a  prey  to  such  mystic  terrors  that  I  came  near 
losing  my  senses.  You  know  that  I  do  not 
admit  any  of  those  hackneyed  maxims  of  mor- 
ality— and  yet  I  continually  felt  that  some  evil 
thing  was  afoot,  and  a  day  of  reckoning  close 
at  hand.  And  besides,  how  intolerable  then 
was  the  thought  that  now  I  had  to  marry  him, 
however  averse  I  might  feel  to  the  act;  that 
now  I  had  more  at  stake  upon  my  side  than 
he  on  his!" 

"And  afterwards,  by  the  seaside?" 

"Oh,  then  it  was  entrancing!  I  almost  felt 
happy.  But  it  lasted  so  short  a  time!  Shortly 
after  our  arrival  I  fell  sick,  and  grew  un- 
wieldy and  weakly  and  plain.  And  then,  if 
you  can  believe  me,  surrounded  with  all  those 
marvels  of  nature  and  of  art,  I  was  always 
longing  for  Klosow,  my  own  place!" 

After  a  silence  of  a  few  minutes,  she  went 
on: 

"I  saw  a  drawing  by  Brenner.  It  was  al- 
ways in  my  thoughts;  a  woman  who  had  died 
after  an  operation,  stretched  on  a  table,  stark 
and  stiff.  There  was  a  man  bending  over  her, 
mourning;  his  hair  was  like  Witold's.  And 
another  picture,  showing  the  tragedy  of 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"       131 

motherhood:  a  young  mother  has  just 
breathed  her  last;  on  her  bosom  sits  a  naked 
child,  a  loathsome  idiot,  looking  out  at  life 
with  wide  open,  bewildered,  lack-lustre  eyes. 
I  can't  help  fancying  that  Orcio  resembles 
that  child." 

With  a  sudden  abrupt  movement,  she  rang 
for  the  man-servant. 

"Ask  the  nurse  why  the  child  is  not  in  bed 
yet.  I  hear  it  making  a  noise.  Tell  her  she 
must  put  it  to  bed.  Or  else  take  it  farther 
away  from  this  room." 

When  the  servant  had  gone  out,  I  said  to 
her: 

"Why,  what  made  you  speak  so  angrily  to 
him." 

"Really,  I  cannot  recognize  myself  any 
more:  my  nerves  are  so  horribly  unstrung." 
.  .  .  And  she  sank  into  a  sombre  reverie. 

"Tell  me  more,"  I  said,  to  draw  her  out. 

"More?  Well,  I  was  not  so  badly  off  then. 
We  took  delight  in  the  blue  sky,  in  the  mur- 
muring green  sea,  and  in  our  all  but  abso- 
lute solitude.  Witold  was  ever  by  my  side, 
tender  and  kind — masking  with  his  exquisite 
courtesy  the  disgust  I  must  have  made  him 
feel.  Why,  for  myself  I  myself  often  felt  pity 


132  Kobiety 

and  aversion;  I  who  had  never  before  been 
other  than  graceful  all  my  life. 

"Then  things  went  worse.  .  .  .  Listen ;  but 
it  is  too  much  for  me  just  now." 

"Then  don't  talk  of  it,  Martha." 

"Ah!  what  does  it  matter  after  all?  If  I 
could  forget  .  .  .  but  I  can't. 

"A  few  weeks  before  George's  birth, 
Witold  for  the  first  time  spent  the  night  away 
from  home.  I  sat  up  all  the  time,  and  looked 
out  through  the  window  over  the  sea.  Ah, 
that  night! 

"The  servants  had  gone  to  bed  long  before. 
There  was  a  great  storm,  with  boisterous  gusts 
of  wind :  and  I  gave  ear  to  the  never-ceasing 
roar  of  the  waves.  You  know  what  a  vision- 
ary I  am.  I  at  once  fancied  Witold  must 
have  been  sailing  in  a  boat  to  the  farther  shore 
of  the  bay,  and  gone  down  to  the  bottom  of 
the  sea.  I  was  horribly  alarmed  for  his  sake; 
and  for  a  time,  not  an  inkling  of  the  truth 
flashed  upon  my  mind.  The  horror  of  my 
fancy  came  over  me  so  strongly  that  I  quite 
forgot  all  about  his  past.  .  .  .  For  I  be- 
lieved with  faith  unbounded  in  his  immense 
love  for  me,  and  should  have  scouted,  as  a 
ridiculous  notion,  the  idea  of  his  possibly  be- 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"       133 

ing  unfaithful.  I  was  out  of  my  mind  with 
terror.  I  counted  the  hours  that  went  by,  in 
agonized  expectation,  surrounded  with  the 
dark  cloudy  night,  and  hearing  the  terrific 
howling  and  rolling  of  the  winds  and  waves. 
.  .  .  Ah,  that  night! 

"In  the  morning  he  came  in. 

"With  the  mien  of  a  youthful  page,  he 
doffed  his  hat  to  the  ground  in  a  courtly  bow, 
and  stood  motionless  in  my  presence,  humble, 
clasping  his  hands:  then,  in  a  soft  sweet  voice 
somewhat  broken  by  emotion,  he  said,  in  an 
accent  of  dismay: 

"  'Ah !  my  lady,  I  am  afraid,  greatly  afraid !' 

"  'I  did  not  rush  to  welcome  him,  nor  did  I 
cry  out  aloud :  I  felt  too  weak  for  any  display 
of  joy.  But  at  that  first  instant,  in  the  sole 
knowledge  that  he  was  living,  an  infinite  in- 
tensity of  quiet  and  fathomless  and  endless 
bliss  flooded  my  heart:  and  I  was  minded  to 
exclaim,  like  Mary  Magdalene  at  the 
Sepulchre,  'Rabboni :  which  is  to  say,  Master!' 

aAnd  then  up  rose  the  sun! 

"He  had  never  before  appeared  so  admir- 
able to  me,  as  in  that  attitude  of  a  page  of 
Mediaeval  times,  and  with  the  playful  humil- 
ity of  his  bright  smile;  he  had  never  yet  been 


134  Kobiety 

so  loved  by  me,  so  dear  beyond  all  measure. 
No,  I  had  never  been  so  glad  in  all  my  life 
as  in  this  one  short  instant  of  consolation! 

"And  yet  they  say  that  women  have  intui- 
tive minds! 

"I  was  as  it  were  caught  and  suspended  in 
an  aerial  cobweb  that  stretched  over  an  abyss 
of  waters ;  and  there  I  gazed  upon  the  golden 
glitter  of  the  morning  landscape  now  that  the 
tempest  was  over — gazed  into  the  blue  and 
shimmering  stillness.  Beneath  me,  under  the 
bridge  of  hanging  gossamer,  rolled  the  som- 
bre sea  of  dread  and  death;  before  me  rose 
the  sea  of  life,  crimson  and  blood-red  in  hue. 
But  I — I  saw  nothing  there,  save  the  dawn 
and  the  sunshine." 

Here  she  broke  off,  closed  her  eyes,  and, 
resting  her  head  on  the  arm  of  her  easy-chair, 
remained  some  time  plunged  in  the  contem- 
plation of  that  past  scenery,  all  azure  and 
gold.  I  let  her  rest  so  for  a  while,  and  then, 
rousing  her: 

"Well,  and  what  then?"  said  I. 

She  knit  her  brows  slightly. 

"Then,  ah!  then!  It  was  a  mere  idle  ques- 
tion, for  I  troubled  about  nothing  now  that  I 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      135 

had  him  again;  but  I  asked  him  what  he  had 
been  doing  all  night. 

"  'Oh,  but  I  am  in  fear,  in  such  fear  of  you,' 
he  said,  smiling,  kneeling  down  before  me, 
and  clasping  his  hand — so!  You  know  the 
gesture  well;  it  is  almost  the  embodiment  of 
child-like  humility. 

"  'Oh,  what?' 

"  'I  want  you  to  promise  you  will  not  be 
angry  with  me.' 

"I  was  suddenly  torn  with  a  sharp  mis- 
giving. 

"  'No,  do  not  tell  me,  Witold,'  I  whis- 
pered. 

"But  he  was  unable  to  conceal  anything 
from  me.  All  he  said  in  excuse  was  that  I 
ought  to  pardon  everything,  by  reason  of  his 
great  love;  that  no  woman  could  ever  snatch 
from  me  the  place  which  I  held  in  his  heart. 
That  he  had  not  been  truly  unfaithful,  since 
his  true  and  only  love  had  always  been  with 
me;  I  was  the  only  woman  that  his  soul  loved, 
and  not  his  senses.  ...  It  is  ever  the  same: 
stretch  out  your  hands  for  life,  and  Death  will 
come  to  you !" 

"And  what  did  you  do?" 

"In  the  first  moments  I  did  not  understand 


136  Kobiety 

all.  He  again  and  again  said  he  loved  me  a 
hundred  times  more  than  ever  before;  I  was 
the  only  woman,  so  pure,  so  ideal  .  .  .  and 
I  could  not  make  out  what  he  meant.  But 
my  hands,  when  touched  by  his  lips,  grew 
cold  as  ice. 

"He  was  frightened,  and  tried  to  soothe 
me;  said  he  would  never  do  it  any  more;  it 
was  not  properly  his  fault,  he  had  been  over- 
taken with  wine:  and  besides,  she — she  was 
indeed  most  beautiful. 

"At  the  bare  memory,  I  saw  his  eyes  flash 
bright.  Oh,  he  is  a  connoisseur  in  women! 

"And  then,  at  last,  I  understood  it  all;  and 
I  thought  (believe  me,  with  the  utmost  sin- 
cerity) :  'Why,  rather  than  this,  has  he  not 
been  drowned  in  the  depths  of  the  sea?' 

"A  mist  came  before  my  eyes:  I  rubbed 
them  to  see  clear.  Then  a  sudden  pain 
clutched  at  my  heart  and  made  me  writhe 
with  torture.  I  fainted;  when  I  came  to,  I 
was  seized  with  fits  of  hysteria.  In  short,  I 
made  all  the  scenes  that  the  typical  'injured 
wife'  is  wont  to  make. 

"Then,  at  the  time  when  George  came,  I 
was  dangerously  ill.  Witold  did  not  admit 
that  he  had  done  me  wrong,  nor  did  he  come 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      137 

near  me  all  the  time.  Later,  he  justified  him- 
self by  saying  that  he  could  have  been  of  no 
use,  and  was  himself  far  too  sensitive  to  bear 
the  sight  of  suffering. 

"Finally,  when  all  danger  was  over,  and 
Orcio  was  making  the  house  ring  with  the 
noise  he  made,  there  was  the  same  night  over 
again;  and  he  was  again  'a  little  flushed  with 
wine,'  and  'guilty  of  no  offense' ;  again  I  was 
'his  only  love.'  And  later,  the  same  scene 
was  repeated  over  and  over,  and  at  shorter 
intervals.  And  this  day  ...  it  is  just  as 
usual.  .  .  . 

"And  now  I  am  looking  into  the  very  bot- 
tom of  my  soul.  Have  you  ever  seen  it?  An 
open  coffin,  in  which  there  are  no  worms, 
there  is  no  corruption.  Only  patches  of 
colour,  continually  fading  and  changing  and 
reviving,  and  forming  lovely,  lovely  stars — • 
just  as  in  a  kaleidoscope.  And  these  hues 
glisten  like  the  scales  of  a  serpent  which  rolls 
and  coils  itself  in  ecstasy." 

A  smile  passed  over  her  face.  Then  she 
gave  a  long  shudder  and  closed  her  eyes  fast. 

Starting  up  on  a  sudden,  she  joined  her 
hands  behind  her  bare  and  shapely  neck. 

"If  you  knew,  Janka,"  she  whispered,  "if 


138  Kobiety 

you  only  knew  how  I  love  him!  If  you  knew 
how  I  am  longing  for  him  every  moment 
when  he  is  away!  If  you  knew  how  fondly, 
how  wildly,  how  madly  I  love  the  exceeding 
sweetness  of  his  mouth!" 

Madame  Wildenhoff  does  not  belong  to  the 
class  of  women  that  Martha  was  speaking  of. 
I  think  that,  were  it  not  for  her  intrigue  with 
Imszanski,  even  Martha  herself  might 
acknowledge  her  as  a  "complete  woman." 
One  may,  however,  be  a  complete  woman,  and 
yet  not  a  complete  human  being.  We  are  not 
yet  in  the  habit  of  distinguishing  these  two 
ideas,  as  we  distinguish  between  "human  be- 
ing" and  "man."  The  part  of  a  human  being 
is  one  so  seldom  played  by  a  woman — they 
have  so  few  opportunities  of  doing  so — that 
we  expect  their  'womanliness  to  comprise  the 
whole  of  humanity.  Nor  do  we  realize  how 
much  we  lower  woman  by  such  an  expecta- 
tion. 

Now,  as  a  woman,  Madame  Wildenhoff  is 
complete,  although  her  human  nature  cannot 
be  said  to  be  rich. 

Her  life,  which  she  told  me  with  the  utmost 
frankness,  has  not  been  wanting  in  colour. 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"       139 

The  daughter  of  a  rich  land-owner,  she  was 
not  yet  sixteen  when  she  crossed  the  frontier 
to  elope  with  a  neighbour  over  forty,  and 
with  whom  she  was  not  even  in  love!  The 
whole  affair  came  about  quite  by  chance. 
She  was  the  friend  of  his  daughter,  whom 
(though  he  was  not  in  favour  of  religious  edu- 
cation for  women)  he  had  decided  to  send  to 
a  convent  in  France:  and  the  parents  of  Lola 
had  asked  him,  since  the  two  girls  had  made 
their  studies  together  from  the  very  begin- 
ning, to  take  their  daughter  with  him  as  well. 
This  man,  having  put  his  own  daughter  into 
the  care  of  the  nuns,  asked  Lola  whether,  in- 
stead of  poring  over  books  in  a  convent,  she 
would  not  like  to  go  with  him  to  Italy.  She 
very  readily  agreed  to  what  she  considered 
as  a  most  natural  plan.  After  a  few  months 
had  elapsed,  she  threw  him  over  for  a  very 
handsome  Italian,  who  afterwards  turned  out 
to  be  a  Parisian  Jew.  After  a  good  many 
other  such  experiences,  her  parents,  as  a  last 
resort,  took  legal  measures  to  find  her.  This 
time  they  actually  placed  her  in  a  convent: 
and  there,  during  three  years  of  penance,  her 
outlook  upon  life  took  definite  shape. 

Her  father  at  length  relented,  and  allowed 


140  Kobiety 

her  to  return  home,  for  the  family  had  given 
up  country  life  altogether,  and  now  resided 
in  town.  There,  before  the  year  was  out,  she 
entered  the  married  state. 

Her  first  lover  was  Wartoslawski,  who  died 
some  time  ago;  Gina  Wartoslawska,  whom  I 
have  mentioned,  is  his  daughter. 

No  long  period  elapsed  ere  Madame 
Wildenhoff  became  unfaithful  to  her  hus- 
band: but  he,  from  the  height  of  his  silent 
scepticism,  looks  down  with  scornful  amenity 
upon  her  "flirtation."  It  may  even  be  that 
he  does  not  dislike  this  state  of  things. 

One  child,  a  daughter,  has  been  born  of 
the  marriage.  She  is  two  years  older  than 
Orcio;  and  Madame  Wildenhoff  has  for  her 
the  greatest  care  and  the  tenderest  maternal 
love. 

I  went  to  call  upon  her  to-day,  in  the  place 
of  Martha,  who  is  constantly  unwell.  She 
was  by  herself;  for  Wildenhoff,  of  course, 
like  all  husbands  of  his  kind,  either  was  no 
longer  at  home,  or  had  not  yet  come  back. 

She  tried  to  interest  me  by  talking,  as  her 
custom  is,  about  herself. 

"My  outward  appearance,  when  all  is  said 
in  its  favour  that  can  be  said,  is  insufficient 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"       141 

to  explain  the  extraordinary  success  I  have  all 

my  life  had  with  men.    My  only  ability — call 

it  an  art  if  you  like — consists  in  influencing 

;    men  by  an   appeal   to   their  lower  natures. 

j     That  is  the  only  way  to  succeed  with  them: 

for  all  of  them  are  mere  animals — all!" 

She  offered  me  some  fruit,  taking  up  the 
vase  containing  it  with  the  gesture  of  a 
"hetaira"  of  old  days,  presenting  a  goblet  of 
golden  wine. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  "I  am  an  epicure.  I 
want  to  get  as  much  as  I  can  out  of  life,  and 
I  know  how  to  get  it.  With  nothing  but 
champagne  and  songs  and  flowers  life  would 
pall  upon  me  very  soon;  so  I  like  now  and 
then  to  get  the  atmosphere  of  an  'At  Home' : 
for  instance,  with  the  Imszanskis.  As  to  her, 
I  don't  know  whether  she  is  really  purer  than 
the  atmosphere  of  a  private  supper-room:  at 
all  events,  her  style  of  corruption  is  peculiar 
—more  Gothic — and  the  virus  is  more  skil- 
fully inoculated.  I  like  to  take  a  rest,  and 
spend  some  quiet  evenings  in  my  family  cir- 
cle, teach  little  Sophy  her  alphabet,  or  pass 
sleepless  nights  in  penance  and  vigil  and  som- 
bre meditations.  After  which,  I  may  per- 
form a  sudden  'pirouette',  Paris  style,  and 


142  Kobiety 

blow  from  afar  a  farewell  kiss  to  husband, 
Sophy,  mamma,  grandmamma — and  virtue!" 

She  laughed  merrily. 

"The  future  of  the  nations  is  not  what  I  am 

,  looking  forward  to.     No,  I  am  resolved  to 

I  get  for  myself  the  greatest  possible  amount 

I  of    happiness,    under    the    circumstances    in 

which    I    am   placed.  .  .  .  You   will   say   I 

am  a  mere  product  of  environment;  well,  let 

it  be  so.     But  mind:    the  way  I  live  harms 

no  one.    If  I  am  contented,  so  is  my  husband, 

and  so  are  my  admirers  as  well." 

"And  their  wives  too?"  I  hazarded. 

"Well,  but  is  it  my  fault  if  they  are  fools? 
Now,  I'll  tell  you  what.  Never  have  I  taken 
a  man  from  a  woman  he  loved.  I  am  not  of 
those  whose  sole  aim  is  to  make  difficult  con- 
quests." 

She  added,  after  a  pause : 

"For  ever  so  long  (and  that  you  must  surely 
know)  Imszanski  has  been  quite  indifferent  to 
his  wife." 

Just  then  the  bell  rang  in  the  antechamber. 
Madame  Wildenhoff  gave  a  start,  then  burst 
into  a  fit  of  laughter.  In  that  laugh  of  hers, 
I  find  something  peculiarly  interesting;  but 
I  cannot  guess  what. 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"       143 

I  rose  to  bid  her  farewell. 

"Why,  what  are  you  running  away  for?  It 
is  only  Gina.  I  like  to  see  two  clever,  hand- 
some women  together;  a  thing  which,  I  must 
tell  you,  very  seldom  happens." 

Gina  came  in  with  her  customary  smile- 
less  greeting,  and  as  usual  called  for  a  glass 
of  water.  Then  she  set  to  look  through  cer- 
tain albums,  scattered  about  the  table.  Her 
figure,  perfectly  faultless  in  style,  stood  out 
like  a  sort  of  anachronism  on  the  background 
of  that  florid  middle-class  drawing-room.  In 
the  light  one  could  see  that  her  eyebrows 
and  lashes  were  golden,  and  her  wavy  hair  of 
a  dark  auburn  hue,  falling  in  a  dishevelled 
mass  on  to  her  shoulders  as  she  bent  forward. 

Madame  WildenhofF  attempted  to  lead  the 
conversation  towards  topics  of  general 
interest. 

She  began  by  the  rights  of  women,  and 
their  failure  to  understand  what  emancipa- 
tion really  signifies.  Gina  speaks  little,  but 
belongs,  like  Madame  WildenhofT,  to  the 
category  of  those  that  are  emancipated  in 
every  sense  of  the  word.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
her  intended  husband  is  her  paramour,  and 


144  Kobiety 

she  has  not  the  slightest  intention  ever  to  be- 
come his  wife. 

I  have  for  some  time  noticed  that  she  is  pos- 
sessed with  a  spirit  of  contradiction.  In  pres- 
ence of  people  who  have  some  certain  definite 
convictions,  she  always  takes  the  opposite 
side:  this  possibly  in  order  to  produce  a  more 
striking  effect  by  the  sharp  contrast  of  tones. 
This  attitude  called  up  in  my  mind  certain 
reminiscences  from  out  of  atavistic  past.  I 
began  to  talk  about  the  gradual  extinction  of 
individual  monogamistic  women,  of  the  eroti- 
cism which  has  soaked  our  democracies 
through  and  through,  of  the  necessity  for  a 
class  of  courtesans,  that  the  type  of  those 
women  who  care  for  something  besides  love 
intrigues  may  be  preserved,  and  other  non- 
sense of  similar  nature. 

Gina  only  looked  at  me  with  a  drowsy 
smile;  but  Madame  Wildenhoff  took  up  the 
cudgels  with  a  sort  of  enthusiasm.  A  curious 
thing:  her  talk  is  not  unlike  Martha's,  though 
their  natures  are  very  far  asunder  indeed. 

"Men  are  endowed  by  nature  with  a  sense 
of  equilibrium :    so  long  as  they  are  in  the  \ 
prime  of  life,  they  live  and  love  and  laugh  at   \ 
plain  and  virtuous  women.     Car  II  faut  que 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      145 

jeunesse  se  passe.  They  therefore  require 
what  may  be  called  the  'brute-woman';  a 
woman  who  laughs  and  glitters  and  shines  for 
a  few  years,  till  she  ages :  then  of  course  she 
withdraws  from  the  arena,  regretting  that  'she^ 
ever  followed  such  a  path.'  It  is  only  after 
men  have  sown  their  wild  oats  that  the  ani- 
mal dies  out  of  them,  and  there  wakes  up — - 
a  plebeian,  or  a  thinker,  or  a  father,  or  a  citi-^ 
zen;  and  then  he  stretches  out  his  hands 
towards  what  we  may  call  the  'human 
woman.'  Then  comes  the  triumph  of  her  who 
respects  herself;  her  day  of  victory  has 
dawned,  she  is  at  last  'appreciated,'  which  is 
to  say  remunerated  for  her  virtue  with  that 
famous  respect  which  is  never  given  to  those 
of  the  other  class.  True,  the  intellectuals  may 
complain  sometimes  that  men  will  not  ac- 
knowledge them  as  mentally  their  equals ;  but 
the  foolish  ones  will  be  honoured  by  their  hus- 
bands' friendship  and  confidence;  and  the 
good  mothers  will  have  no  aim  or  happiness 
in  life  beyond  the  bringing  up  of  children: 
while  they  each  and  all  either  look  down  upon 
the  'brute -woman'  or  regard  them  with 
philanthropic  compassion." 

"Poor  things!"  Gina  exclaimed;  "they  do 


146  Kobiety 

not  know  that  the  tragic  excitement  of  a  sin- 
gle night  may  be  perhaps  worth  more  than  a 
whole  existence  passed  in  such  torpid  apathy 
as  theirs." 

To-day  there  is  some  festival  or  other.  I 
have  not  gone  to  the  office,  and  have  been  sit- 
ting all  the  morning  at  Martha's  bedside,  who 
is  not  to  get  up  until  the  afternoon.  She  is  as 
usual  always  complaining,  her  sad  eyes  gaz- 
ing into  mine. 

"Janka,  I  can  no  longer  sleep  a  wink.  Last 
night  it  was  twelve  before  I  ceased  tossing  on 
my  pillow.  Like  a  child,  I  cried  myself  to 
sleep  at  last:  and  when  I  woke,  it  was  no 
later  than  three  o'clock." 

She  crossed  behind  her  head  her  lace- 
decked  arms,  and  looked  out  into  space  with 
infinite  wistfulness. 

Then  she  continued  in  a  low  voice:  "I 
cannot  imagine  why  my  former  life  in  Klosow 
now  comes  back  to  me  so  very  vividly.  I  re- 
member how  sometimes  I  used  to  rise  early 
on  a  winter  morning,  when  it  was  still  dark, 
and  how  I  dressed  by  lamplight,  shivering 
with  cold,  and  fighting  down  my  longing  to 
go  back  to  my  warm  bed.  Then  I  would  put 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers'5       147 

on  a  huge  fur,  and  take  the  keys,  and  go  to 
the  farm  with  a  lantern  in  my  hand.  Do  you 
know,  all  this  is  present  to  me  now,  just  like 
a  vision?  And  then  I  remember  the  far-off 
fields,  lying  fallow  beneath  the  snow,  and 
stretching  away  even  to  the  verge  of  the  hori- 
zon, under  the  sky  in  which  the  stars  were 
beginning  to  grow  pale.  I  remember  the 
farm  buildings,  vague  dark  spots  upon  the 
landscape,  the  forests  like  streaks  of  violet,  the 
grey  fences,  and  the  delicate  tracery  of  the 
leafless  garden  trees.  And  now  through  the 
darkness  there  come  sounds:  the  clattering  of 
tin  pails,  and  the  faint  drowsy  calling  of  the 
maids  to  one  another.  Oh,  and  I  remember 
well  the  cold,  the  lusty,  fresh,  piercing  cold, 
making  the  teeth  clatter  in  one's  head.  And 
then,  the  close  warmth  of  the  cow-byres,  and 
the  low  black-raftered  ceiling  overhead;  the 
outlines  of  the  solemn-looking  cows  and 
sleepy  milkmaids,  the  bright  circles  of  the 
lanterns  on  the  floor,  and  the  quaint  broken 
shadows  on  the  beams  and  girders  above;  the 
milk  stream  rhythmically  into  the  pails,  the 
indolent  lowing  of  the  kine,  and  the  jingling 
sound  of  the  chain  that  bound  the  savage  steer 
to  the  crib.  .  .  .  You  remember  the  cat, 


148  Kobiety 

too — our  cat?  Don't  you:  so  sharp  of  wit, 
following  us  everywhere  like  a  dog?  All 
that's  so  far  off,  so  irrevocably  gone!  Oh,  I 
tell  you,  I  would  give  more  than  my  life,  if  I 
could  but  see  one  such  morning  return — only 
one  such  bleak  and  dark  and  frosty  morning, 
and  I  were  now  as  I  was  then !  .  .  ." 

She  turned  her  cheek  to  the  pillow,  and 
shed  tears. 

"Martha,  your  nerves  are  again  in  a  very 
poor  state.  If  you  like,  I  shall  go  with  you 
to  Klosow;  and  we  shall  spend  Christmas 
there  together,  and  enjoy  a  few  idyllic  days 
as  of  old." 

"Oh,  no,  Janka ;  they  would  only  be  the  mis- 
erable ghosts  of  times  that  are  past  for  ever. 
That  stupid,  clubby-faced  woman,  Janusz's 
wife,  would  get  on  my  nerves  so ;  besides,  the 
thought  that  Witold  would  be  staying  here 
with  Madame  Wildenhoff,  and  glad  I  was 
away! 

"But,"  she  added  with  a  sudden  revival  of 
spirits,  "do  you  know,  I  fancy  her  triumph 
will  be  over  pretty  soon?  It  is  true  that 
Witold  was  never  very  much  attached  to  her: 
but  now  it  would  seem  that  his  affections  are 
strongly  engaged  elsewhere." 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      149 

"Are  they?"  I  asked,  much  interested:  for 
I  recalled  Lipka  and  my  unexpected  meeting 
with  Imszanski  there. 

"Did  he  tell  you  anything?" 

"Oh,  he  is  simply  ridiculous — so  hope- 
lessly frank  with  me.  He  never  will  spare  me 
any  details,  and  holds  it  in  some  sort  as  a  duty 
to  conceal  nothing  from  me.  .  .  ." 

She  laughed  bitterly,  and  at  once  looked 
sullen  again. 

"Yesterday,  before  you  came  home  from  the 
office,  I  asked  Witold  all  about  her.  She  is 
some  star  of  the  Parisian  demi-monde,  who 
has  made  up  her  mind  to  get  an  engagement 
at  any  price  on  the  stage  here:  and  Witold  is 
expected,  on  account  of  his  influence  in 
Warsaw,  to  obtain  a  fixed  situation  for  her. 
It  appears  that  her  voice  is  tolerable,  and  her 
outward  appearance  marvellous:  he  has  de- 
scribed her  to  me  in  every  particular.  It  was, 
I  assure  you,  one  of  the  most  emotional  ex- 
periences I  ever  went  through." 

She  closed  her  eyes,  to  intensify  the  image 
that  she  was  forming  in  her  mind. 

"The  woman  is  tall,  and  seemingly  of  spare 
proportions:  but  only  seemingly  so.  Her 
bony  framework  is  exceedingly  slight  and 


150  Kobiety 

reed-like:  so  you  see,  Janka,  on  close  inquiry 
she  is  found  not  to  be  really  thin." 

As  she  spoke,  she  turned  upon  her  pillow, 
tearing  at  its  satin  covering  with  her  nails,  and 
striving  to  swallow  down  her  tears  of  rage. 

I  could  not  contain  myself. 

"Why  on  earth  does  he  tell  you  about  such 
things?  He  must  be  a  monster." 

"There  are  a  great  many  things  that  he 
never  can  understand — what  I  told  you  seems 
but  the  merest  trifle  to  him." 

She  took  a  spoonful  of  bromide,  and  con- 
tinued: 

"You  must  know  that  he  tells  me  she  has 
large  oval-shaped  eyes,  with  extremely  long 
lashes — eyes  of  an  unfathomable  black,  in 
very  striking  contrast  with  her  voluptuous 
mouth;  always  sorrowful,  dreamy,  and  with 
a  far-away  look,  like  the  beggar-maid  loved 
by  King  Cophetua.  She  has  also  much 
originality,  something  like  an  odalisque,  and 
uniting  the  primitiveness  of  a  mountain  goat 
with  all  the  cultured  grace  of  a  maid  of 
honour  at  a  royal  court." 

This,  after  the  elimination  of  certain  ex- 
aggerated points,  was  easily  recognizable  as 
the  description  of  that  fair  French-woman 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      151 

whom  I  had  seen  at  Lipka's.  And  now  I 
understood  why  Imszanski  had  shown  himself 
so  very  full  of  courtesy  toward  Czolhanski. 
The  latter,  as  a  theatrical  critic,  may  be  use- 
ful to  him. 

"She  dresses,  it  appears,  most  superbly, 
with  all  the  magnificence  of  Babylonian 
times:  golden  combs  and  strings  of  pearls  in 
her  hair;  in  her  ears,  rings  of  the  greatest 
price.  Moreover,  she  is  a  very  miracle  of 
depravity.  Witold  smiled  as  he  told  me  so, 
with  an  inward  look,  as  though  recalling 
some  particular. 

"As  he  told  me  so,  he  smiled;  and  I  too 
smiled,  listening  with  the  blandest  interest. 
He  looked  at  me  attentively,  kissed  my  hand, 
and  said: 

"  'Your  nerves  are  better  now,  I  see.  How 
glad  I  am!  You  have  no  idea.  You  have  at 
last  realized  that  to  feel  jealous  of  a  cocotte 
would  be  unworthy  of  you.' 

"  Why,  of  course.  Yes,  yes ;  I  am  all  right 
now.'  And  yet,  Janka,  I  never  felt  it  so 
deeply;  I  never  saw  things  with  such  awful 
clearness  of  vision.  And  alas!  I  never,  never 
yet  loved  Witold  with  such  passionate  love. 


152  Kobiety 

"But,  more  than  him,  I  love  that  pain  which 
I  feel.  .  .  ." 

She  rose  in  bed,  as  if  to  repel  something 
that  was  weighing  her  down;  then  she  sat 
propped  up  by  her  cushions  and  pillows. 

"Do  you  imagine  that  in  all  this  I  had  any 
idea  of  revengeful  pleasure  at  Mme.  Wilden- 
hoff's  disappointment,  and  for  that  reason 
made  him  tell  me  what  he  did?  Not  in  the 
least.  I  wanted  to  drink  my  fill  of  pain;  as 
in  Spain  they  wave  a  red  flag  in  bull-fights 
before  the  bloodshot  eyes  of  the  poor  brute, 
to  make  him  yet  madder  with  rage  and  de- 
spair, so  I  wished  to  excite  myself  to  the  same 
delirious  state. 

"I  do  not  wish  for  anything  that  can  dimin- 
ish the  intensity  of  my  anguish,  I  hate  what- 
ever could  mitigate  or  deaden  it.  I  love  to 
gloat  over  the  raw  bleeding  wounds,  bare  and 
unbandaged.  .  .  ." 

At  that  moment,  the  nurse  tapped  at  the 
door,  to  ask  whether  Orcio  might  not  come  in 
to  bid  his  mother  good  morning. 

"No — no!  shut  the  door!  I  will  have  no 
one  here!  Janka,  you  have  not  the  least  idea 
how  I  hate  my  son." 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"       153 

At  Lipka's  to-night:  and  this  time  in  a  pri- 
vate room.  Mme.  Wildenhoff  talked  at  great 
length,  somewhat  to  the  following  effect: 

"There  is  in  reality  only  one  kind  of  per- 
fect love — that  of  the  brute  creation ;  indelib- 
erate,  irreflective  love,  wherein  victory  is  to 
the  strongest  and  most  beautiful ;  the  pure  re- 
productive instinct,  unalloyed  by  any  culture 
or  mental  analysis  whatsoever.  But  we — we, 
who  are  civilized — unfortunately  look  down 
upon  this  sort  of  love.  For  we  have  reckoned, 
with  quasi-mathematical  exactitude,  how 
much  of  love  should  be  taken,  and  how  much 
rejected,  in  order  to  get  the  greatest  possible 
sum  of  quintessential  delight.  And  thence 
has  sprung  quite  a  new  type  of  love:  instinct 
which  has  emancipated  itself  from  obedience 
to  the  laws  of  nature — love  with  its  chief  mo- 
tive, preservation  of  the  species,  eliminated. 
Now  love  of  the  kind  I  have  spoken  of  gener- 
ally receives  the  epithet  of  bestial ;  whereas  on 
the  contrary  it  is  most  specially  the  outcome 
of  refinement." 

"It  appears  among  nations  at  the  epoch  of 
their  highest  development,  and  is  the  har- 
binger of  their  speedy  decline,"  remarked 
Czolhanski,  with  solemn  dignity. 


154  Kobiety 

"What  does  it  matter?  Apres  nous  le 
deluge!" 

"And  to  what  class  would  you  assign  con- 
jugal love?"  asked  Owinski.  Gina,  who  had 
silently  disposed  her  lithe,  snake-like,  supple 
figure  on  a  little  sofa,  looked  round  with  as- 
tonishment at  her  fiance. 

"Oh,  we  may  call  it  love  of  a  third  type," 
answered  Madame  Wildenhoff:  "love  sanc- 
tioned by  law,  the  union  of  two  souls  in  friend- 
ship, and  the  bringing  forth  of  rachitic  off- 
spring: an  abnormal  combination  of  brute 
and  human  love." 

"Do  you  then,  Madame,"  urged  Owinski,- 
"perceive  no  good  points  in  marriage?" 

"None  whatever,"  she  replied  with  a  bland 
smile,  "because — and  this  reason  alone  would 
suffice  me — because  I  hate  marriage  with  all 
my  heart.  It  has  been  and  is  the  aim  of  my 
life  to  blast  marriage,  whenever  I  can  suc- 
ceed in  doing  so.  Between  the  happiest  and 
most  moral  couples — those  in  which  one  of 
the  two,  the  husband  or  the  wife,  leads  a  prof- 
ligate life,  and  the  other  knows  nothing  of  it 
— I  bring  the  dissolving  element,  enlighten- 
ment, and  rejoice  when  I  see  the  couples  fall 
apart" 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"       155 

Here  she  bent  aside  toward  her  husband's 
chair,  and  said  to  him  in  an  affectionate  and 
audible  whisper: 

"But  we  are  a  pattern  couple,  are  we  not?" 

This  time,  Imszanski  went  home  with  me. 

I  overheard  Czolhanski  say,  on  taking  leave 

of  him:    "You  may  rely  upon  me  absolutely; 

I  will  manage  everything." 

It  has  been  terribly  cold,  and  now  there  is 
a  thaw.  At  such  times,  I  love  to  wander  up 
and  down  the  avenues  in  the  park,  which  then 
are  completely  deserted. 

My  nostrils  inhale  that  peculiar  scent  of 
bare  moist  earth,  and  the  effluvium  from  the 
buds  as  yet  invisible ;  and  I  muse  upon  those 
incomparable  and  marvellously  beautiful 
things  that  have  never  been  realized. 

On  the  yellow  background  of  dry  dead 
grass,  there  appeared  in  the  distance  a  young 
man  to  whom,  as  to  myself,  loneliness  was 
no  doubt  pleasant,  and  who  enjoyed  walking 
along  the  avenues  oversprinkled  with  last 
year's  fallen  leaves. 

He  came  up  with  me,  and  on  passing  by, 
looked  keenly  into  my  eyes,  and  with  some- 
thing of  astonishment. 


156  Kobiety 

I  did  not  return  his  glance,  but  walked 
more  slowly,  so  as  to  lag  behind  him. 

The  young  man  stopped  presently,  and 
waited  until  I  came  up ;  then  he  passed  by  me 
again  with  a  protracted  stare. 

This  manoeuvre  was  repeated  several  times. 
Presently  I  was  seized  with  an  unaccountable 
desire  to  burst  into  a  fit  of  nervous  laughter, 
which  I  smothered  down  as  best  I  could.  At 
any  rate,  I  had  the  full  control  of  my  eyes, 
the  expression  of  which  was  mere  indifference 
and  disdain.  Presently  I  looked  him  stead- 
ily in  the  face,  to  stare  him  out  of  counte- 
nance ;  so  that  he  could  see  my  attitude  to  be 
unmistakably  hostile. 

"But  why,"  I  was  thinking  all  the  time, 
"why  should  I  look  upon  him — this  hand- 
some slender  stripling — as  my  foe?  He  cer- 
tainly does  not  mean  to  harm  me  in  any  way; 
his  interest  is  simply  aroused  in  finding  a  per- 
son who  has  the  same  taste  for  solitude  as  him- 
self, whilst  he  naturally  has  a  friendly  feeling 
towards  a  good-looking  woman." 

The  young  fellow,  at  first  kindly  disposed, 
was  nettled  by  the  look  of  hostility  in  my 
eyes.  He  came  up  close  to  me,  with  a  flippant 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      157 

laugh,  and  said  in  an  ironical  tone  of  sym- 
pathy: 

"I  would  give  anything  in  reason  to  know 
what  sorrows  of  the  heart  have  driven  you 
to  take  so  very  romantic  a  walk  as  this." 

I  was  silent,  and  knit  my  brows. 

"Souls  that  pine  in  loneliness,"  he  went  on, 
as  sarcastic  as  before,  "ought  to  comfort  each 
other,  I  think:  don't  you?" 

There  was  a  pause,  as  we  walked  side  by 
side. 

"But  why  knit  those  fair  eyebrows  so?  Oh, 
really,  you  frighten  me.  .  .  .  Such  malignant 
eyes!  Come,  come,  I  shall  do  you  no  harm; 
why  be  so  cantankerous?" 

In  a  rage  and  turning  my  back  on  him,  I 
walked  swiftly  away.  He  made  no  attempt 
to  follow.  On  arriving  at  the  gate,  where  I 
was  safe  at  last,  I  looked  round.  He  was 
standing  where  he  had  stood  before,  and  from 
afar  waving  me  with  bared  head  a  graceful 
farewell. 

The  incident  mortified  and  abashed  me.  I 
had  behaved  like  a  silly  goose,  narrow- 
minded  and  ill-tempered;  I  had  spoiled  a 
situation  that  might  have  had  pleasant  or  cu- 


158  Kobiety 

rious  developments.     Why  on  earth  had  I 
done  so? 

Was  this,  again,  only  a  matter  of  form? 
The  necessity  of  that  regular  introduction,  so 
dear  to  the  bourgeoisie,  in  a  drawing-room 
where  two  persons  are  made  acquainted  with 
each  other  by  a  third?  Or  was  it  not  rather  / 
that  dread — now  a  part  of  our  life — the  in- 
stinctive dread  of  things  as  they  are,  the  eter- 
nal need  of  playing  the  part  of  a  besieged 
fort,  which  defends  itself  stubbornly  in  order 
to  surrender  on  the  best  terms  possible? 

As  I  came  out  of  the  park,  a  carriage  driven 
at  full  speed  passed  by  me;  I  saw  a  couple  of 
feathers  and  a  good  deal  of  fur.  Suddenly 
the  coachman  pulled  up,  and  Mme.  Wilden- 
hoff  jumped  out  and  came  towards  me. 

"Ah!  how  delighted  I  am  to  meet  you! 
You  won't  get  away  from  me  this  time.  Pray 
step  in:  I  must  make  a  regular  woman  of 
you." 

"With  pleasure:    but  what's  the  matter?" 

"You  shall  hear." 

We  got  in.  Mme.  Wildenhoff  gave  the 
man  orders  to  drive  slowly. 

"Quite   a  warm   day!"   she  observed.  .  .  . 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      159 

"Well,  you  see,  I  have  one  idee  fixe,  at  least 
that's  what  my  husband  calls  it." 

"And  that  is?  .  .  ." 

"Ah,  what  a  coincidence  to  have  met  you, 
of  whom  I  was  just  thinking!" 

"Very  good,  but  what  do  you  want  me  for?" 

"Wait  a  bit;  I  must  begin  at  the  beginning. 

"Let  me  tell  you  that  I  consider  it  a  most 
important  point  that  we  should,  in  the  cause 
of  Woman,  meet  and  come  to  an  understand- 
ing with  women  of  so-called  'loose  character.' 
And,  in  particular,  enter  into  social  relations 
with  them.  It  is  indeed  an  eccentricity  on 
my  part;  but  I  enjoy  stemming  and  making 
head  against  the  current." 

"It  may  lead  to  curious  developments,"  I 
said. 

"You  are  perfectly  right.  In  the  first  place, 
we  must  all  of  us  get  to  understand  our  com- 
munity of  interests.  The  social  boycott  which 
the  whole  demi-monde  has  to  undergo,  is  a 
real  civil  war  waged  by  women  against  one 
another;  a  weakening  of  our  powers,  to  which 
men  not  only  do  not  object,  but  which  they 
also  tend  to  aggravate.  It  is  they  who  make 
'those  dreadful  creatures,  bereft  of  a  con- 
science,' responsible  for  all  the  transgressions 


160  Kobiety 

which  they  themselves  commit:  so  that  the 
fury  of  jealousy  which  their  mothers  and 
their  wives,  actual  or  intended,  would  other- 
wise pour  out  upon  their  heads,  is  all  trans- 
formed into  a  feeling  of  hatred  against  such 
women.  It  is  undoubtedly  a  very  clever  bit 
of  tactics  on  their  part;  but  we  ought  not  to 
let  ourselves  be  taken  in  so  easily;  we  should 
all  close  our  ranks  and  join  shoulder  to  shoul- 
der to  fight  the  common  foe." 

"But  what  if  those  women  hate  us  more 
than  we  do  them?" 

"That  they  do,  is  true;  but  it  is  only  be- 
cause they  believe  us  to  be  happier  than  they 
are.  We  have  to  dispel  this  egregious  de- 
lusion; we  must  let  them  know  that  we  feel 
our  wrongs  as  keenly  as  they  do  theirs;  that 
we  recognize  them  as  our  companions  in 
womanhood,  as  sharers  in  our  common  hu- 
manity. ...  It  is  because  we  do  nothing  that 
such  a  falsehood  has  been  able  to  take  such 
strong  root. 

"We  should  join  with  them,  for  they  are 
our  necessary  complement:  not  only  so,  but 
mingle  with  them  without  endeavouring  to  in- 
tensify the  difference  between  us  and  them  by 
trying,  in  so  far  as  we  can,  to  deprive  our 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      161 

souls  of  those  immense  fields  of  womanliness, 
and  renounce  to  our  own  detriment  the 
glamour  of  frivolity  and  of  frailty.  There 
must  be  a  thorough  fusion;  and  it  is  only  by 
such  levelling  down  that  we  shall  arrive  at 
the  synthesis  of  womanhood:  a  new  type,  a 
complete  type,  in  which  the  only  difference 
observable  will  be  those  of  individuals,  not 
of  avocations." 

"All  that's  very  fine,  but  where  are  you 
taking  me?" 

"I  am  coming  to  that.  I  am  just  paying  a 
formal  visit  to  an  ex-courtesan,  a  Mme. 
Wieloleska — formerly  Mary  tout  court,  for  I 
don't  know  her  family  name.  And  I  abso- 
lutely want  you  to  come  along  with  me." 

"But  ...  is  she  possible?" 

"Quite;  you  may  believe  me.  She  takes 
everything  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  will  be 
much  pleased  to  receive  you.  .  .  .  Only  you 
will  have  to  behave  exactly  as  if  she  were 
Wieloleski's  real  wife." 

"What?  then  they  are  not  married?" 

"The  ideal  The  man  has  a  wife  and  five 
children  somewhere  down  in  the  country. 
.  .  .  And  that  woman  has  got  such  a  hold 
on  him  that  he  won't  stir  so  much  as  one  step 


162  Kobiety 

from  her  side.  .  .  .  You  must  take  a  look  at 

their  place She  was  formerly  quite  a 

common  dejni-mondaine,  though  well  spoken 
of." 

"And  how  did  you  get  to  know  her?" 

"Oh,  she's  an  old  acquaintance,  made  by 
means  of  Imszanski." 

The  carriage  had  stopped  in  front  of  an 
ornamental  gateway,  leading  to  a  handsome 
suburban  villa,  screened  from  view  to  some 
extent  by  a  tracery  of  branches  and  tree- 
trunks,  and  in  a  frame  of  towering  fir-trees. 

As  I  went  up  the  broad  white  steps  at  the 
entrance,  I  felt  my  heart  beat,  and  could  not 
tell  exactly  why.  Perhaps  at  the  fancy  which 
then  came  to  me,  that  I  might,  within  those 
very  doors,  come  face  to  face  with  the  naked, 
dark,  and  horrible  mystery  of  Life! 

An  elderly  and  very  stylish  footman  raised 
the  door-hanging  to  usher  us  into  a  large  sit- 
ting-room, conventionally  furnished  a  la 
secession. 

In  a  few  minutes  there  entered  a  very  tall, 
slim,  lady-like  person,  quietly  dressed  in  a 
clinging  morning  gown,  somewhat  like  a  rid- 
ing-habit, and  followed  by  a  little  white  lamb, 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      163 

which  came  treading  stiffly  and  sometimes 
funnily  sliding  along  the  polished  floor. 

Mme.  Mary  welcomed  Mme.  ^Vildenhoff 
with  smiling  effusion.  . 

"I  have  come  to  call  upon  you  witn  a  f  riejd 
of  mine:  Miss  Dernowicz,  Mme.  Wielo- 
leska,"  she  said,  introducing  me.  "I  trust  you 
will  have  no  objection ;  I  wanted  to  show  her 
your  greenhouse  very  much." 

"Indeed,  my  dear  Madame,  but  you  afe 
doing  me  a  pleasure.  I  feel  so  bored  in  this 
solitude,  where  I  see  nobody  at  all.  All  day 
long,  my  husband  is  in  the  greenhouse  or  pot- 
tering about  the  hotbeds;  he  has  engaged  a 
new  gardener  from  Haarlem,  and  it  is  quite 
out  of  the  question  getting  him  anywhere  out 
of  doors.  If  you  care,  we  shall  have  a  look 
at  the  greenhouse  at  once.  I  tell  you,  if  it 
were  not  for  my  books  and  studies,  I  really 
might  be  tempted  to  make  away  with  myself." 

"And  why  should  you  not  take  a  walk  some- 
times? The  weather  is  splendid  just  now." 

"Oh,  no!  My  husband  won't  go  out;  and  it 
would  not  be  proper  for  a  woman  to  go  out 
alone.  You  know  how  uncharitable  people 


are." 


164  Kobiety 

"And  what  may  you  be  studying, 
Madame?"  I  asked. 

"Pretty  nearly  everything  possible,"  she  re- 
plied, laughing.  "I  take  at  least  five  hours  of 
lessons  daily.  One  of  my  professors  only  just 
left  the  house:  he  is  giving  me  a  course  of 
University  lessons  on  the  ancient  literature 
of  India.  Since  a  week,  too,  I  have  been 
learning  to  read  hieroglyphics.  .  .  .  Haven't 
you  made  a  study  of  them?  .  .  .  They  are 
very  interesting.  .  .  .  One  is  carried  away — 
other  lands,  other  times.  .  .  .  And  I  am  so 
curious  about  everything  in  the  world.  .  .  . 
But  I  am  best  in  languages.  It  is  so  extreme- 
ly important  to  be  able  to  read  every  writer 
in  the  original." 

"For  you  must  know,"  put  in  Mme.  Wil- 
denhoff,  "that  Mme.  Mary  is  a  well-known 
linguist." 

"Indeed?" 

"Ah,"  she  said,  smiling  modestly,  "it  all 
comes  to  me  so  easily.  At  the  present  time,  I 
am  proficient  in  French,  English,  German, 
Italian,  Spanish,  Swedish,  Dutch,  and  Rus- 
sian. This  year  I  am  learning  the  Finnish 
and  Japanese  languages.  I  have,  moreover, 
read  Homer  and  Virgil  in  the  original  Greek 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      165 

and  Latin.  Not  one  hundredth  part  of  their 
marvellous  beauties  can  be  rendered  in  a 
translation :  and  I  am  so  sensitive  to  the  Beau- 
tiful .  .  .  !" 

"Do  you  know?"  she  broke  off,  turning 
towards  Mme.  Wildenhoff,  "I  have  at  last 
managed  to  satisfy  my  husband  that  we  must 
positively  take  a  trip  to  Algeria.  And  that 
will  have  to  be  in  a  few  weeks:  it  is  too  hot 
there  in  summer.  .  .  .  Ah!  you  can't  think 
how  hard  it  is  to  get  him  away  from  those 
flowers  of  his;  he  loves  them  so  dearly!" 

I  examined  Mme.  Wieloleska  with  care- 
ful scrutiny.  Her  face  is  pale  and  surrounded 
with  scanty  locks  of  fair  hair;  her  eyes,  small, 
greyish  and  expressionless,  and  bordered  with 
a  faint  pink  hue,  are  continually  in  motion  to 
and  fro ;  she  has  a  tiny  nose  with  rounded  nos- 
trils, and  a  full,  rather  bloodless  mouth,  now 
and  then  moving  with  a  quick  twitch,  like  a 
child  making  a  wry  face;  and  with  all  that 
she  is  attractive.  Her  talkativeness,  her 
tuneless  voice,  and  a  certain  carelessness  in  her 
manner,  correct  one's  first  impression  that  she 
is  pretentious,  and  give  the  effect  of  a  school- 
girl desinvolture,  rather  than  the  effrontery  of 
a  bona-roba. 


166  Kobiety 

She  stooped  to  caress  her  pet  lamb,  which 
had  lain  down  at  her  feet  in  a  posture  that 
suggested  careful  training.  Then  she  rose, 
saying:  "Perhaps  we  may  now  go  and  look 
at  the  place." 

On  our  way  to  the  conservatory,  We  had  to 
pass  through  several  rooms  and  galleries  full 
of  pictures.  On  the  right,  we  saw  a  work- 
room, with  bright  jets  of  gas  burning,  though 
the  night  had  not  yet  fallen.  Several  girls 
were  there,  busily  bending  over  tambour 
frames. 

"These  are  my  little  ones,"  said  Mme. 
Wieloleska,  smiling  at  them.  "Unfortu- 
nately, I  have  no  children  myself,  so  I  have 
undertaken  to  bring  up  these  girls." 

"What  are  they  about  here?" 

"They  are  learning  embroidery,  under  the 
tuition  of  a  German  instructress.  I  am  par- 
ticularly anxious  that  my  philanthropic  plans 
may  not  do  them  more  harm  than  good;  for 
my  husband  very  wisely  says  that  'it  is  not 
hard  to  give,  but  to  give  judiciously.  ..." 

"Well,  but  what  do  you  do  with  the  em- 
broidered work  afterwards?" 

"Oh,  you  see,  I  don't  like  to  wear  lace  upon 
my  linen — besides,  it  is  not  the  fashion  now-a- 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      167 

days — so  I  have  everything  covered  over  with 
embroidery.  Linen  is  far  more  beautiful  so. 
I — I  might  perhaps  show  you — yes,  I  think 
it's  all  right  here — only  women  present.  .  .  ." 

She  laughed,  winking  significantly,  and 
took  us  farther  down  the  passage,  where,  with 
a  swift  twist  and  twirl,  like  a  ballet-dancer, 
she  raised  her  dress  above  her  knees,  showing 
several  tiers  of  cambric  flounces  beyond  her 
silk  stockings.  At  no  other  time  of  our  visit 
was  there  anything  to  recall  what  she  had 
once  been. 

"You,  I  fancy,"  she  said,  turning  to  me, 
"wear  a  petticoat;  I  am  not  sure  you  had  not 
better  give  it  up.  rA  well-flounced  under- 
garment makes  the  dress  look'quite  sufficiently 
wide;  a  petticoat  altogether  effaces  the  out- 
lines of  the  hips."  Then  passing  her  hand 
down  my  waist:  "It  is  a  pity,"  she  said; 
"for  you  have  a  splendid  shape — hips  like  a 
Spanish  woman's." 

We  have  found  Wieloleski  standing  at  the 
very  end  of  the  conservatory,  and  carefully 
watching  his  gardener  at  work.  He  is  a  tall 
man,  something  over  forty,  rather  stout;  very 
elegant-mannered,  and  courteous,  but  distant 
and  abstracted.  He  has  an  extensive  bald 


i68  Kobiety 

place,  with  long  thin  wisps  combed  over  it 
from  the  left,  though  without  any  attempt  at 
concealment;  and  an  abundant  black  beard. 

As  he  was  taking  us  about  his  greenhouse, 
he  observed :  "It  is  only  at  present,  and  since 
I  have  been  living  here,  that  I  have  learned 
to  understand  Tolstoi  properly.  It  is  only  by 
a  close  acquaintance  with  nature  and  with 
manual  work,  that  we  discover  all  the  empti- 
ness of  society  life  and  its  form  and  preju- 
dices, and  all  the  futility  of  social  dissensions 
and  hatreds." 

I  am  not  so  well  able  to  maintain  my  posi- 
tion as  a  cool  observer,  as  Mme.  Wilden- 
hoff  is:  and  here  I  could  not  refrain  from 
presenting  an  objection  to  him. 

"And  nevertheless,  your  being  able  to  stand 
thus  aside  in  social  struggles,  proceeds  from 
the  fact  that  you  possess  property;  and  prop- 
erty itself  lies  within  the  sphere  of  these  strug- 
gles, since  they  make  an  object  of  it.  So  the 
very  land  you  own  brings  you  back  into  these 
classes  of  society  from  which  you  flee." 

Wieloleski,  rather  surprised,  offered  me  a 
few  white  kalia  flowers,  just  gathered,  before 
he  replied,  in  a  calm  but  very  dogmatic  tone. 

"On  this  point,  I  cannot  agree  with  you. 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      169 

Those  who  dispute  the  right  of  property  take 
no  account  of  the  reality  of  things.  Imme- 
morial custom  has  made  the  right  of  property 
as  much  a  'category  of  thought,'  as  Space  is, 
or  Time." 

Mary,  who  was  just  behind  us,  interrupted 
him:  "Oh,  Edmund  is  reading  you  a  lec- 
ture already,  I  hear.  My  dear,  you  had  bet- 
ter come  and  flirt  with  Mme.  Lola,  and  I'll 
take  Miss  Janina  with  me." 

She  came  and  put  her  arm  round  my  waist, 
saying  that  she  liked  me  very  much  indeed. 
This  I  answered  with  an  indulgent  smile,  al- 
ways suitable  when  women  pay  compliments 
to  women. 

She  felt  that  this  was  not  the  way  to  win 
me,  so  she  set  to  talk  about  literature. 

"There  are  some  books,"  she  said,  "in  which 
I  find  a  rest,  and  which  enable  me  to  escape 
from  reality  altogether.  And  that's  why  I 
can't  bear  such  authors — Zola,  for  instance — 
as  bring  dirt  which  ought  to  revolt  any  deli- 
cate mind,  into  a  sphere  where  poetry  alone 
should  reign  supreme." 

I  hazarded  another  objection  here. 

"Do   you   not   think   that   the   first   step 


iyo  Kobiety 

towards,  healing  the  ulcers  of  societyistojay 
them  bare?? 

"Ugh!  why  write  about  them?  We  all 
know  them  too  well!  In  life  itself,  there  is, 
I  tell  you,  quite  enough  of  sorrow  and  of 
miasma.  You,  so  young,  may  possibly  not 
have  as  yet  had  any  opportunity  of  coming 
into  contact  with  them.  .  .  .  No,  no:  why 
should  we  ourselves  spoil  the  short  sweet 
moments  when  it  is  possible  to  dream?" 

She  then  proposed  that  we  should  take  a 
rest  on  a  seat  of  bamboo-work,  ensconced 
amongst  exotic  plants  and  shrubs  in  large 
green  tubs.  As  soon  as  we  had  sat  down,  her 
trained  pet  lamb  came  and  lay  down  on  the 
skirt  of  her  dress. 

"Every  one  ought  to  have  some  sacred  book 
— some  Bible  or  other — ought  he  not?"  she 
asked,  after  a  short  silence.  "Alas!  there  is 
no  one,  with  ever  so  little  knowledge  of  philos- 
ophy, who  can  possibly  believe  in  the  exist- 
ence of  God — and  all  the  rest  of  it. 

"But  we  can  at  any  rate  respect  the  poetry 
which  religion  contains,  and  the  feelings  of 
those  who  have  not  as  yet  lost  their  faith:  is 
it  not  so?" 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      171 

"Certainly,"  I  replied  with  the  utmost 
gravity. 

"Well,  the  Bible  which  I  could  not  go  to 
sleep  without  reading,  and  out  of  which  I  read 
portions  daily  instead  of  my  prayers,  is  that 
book  of  legends  by  Voragine.  .  .  .  Do  you 
know  it?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  assented,  "the  Golden  Legend." 

"Oh,  what  a  world  of  poetry  there  is  in  it! 
What  treasures  of  freshness  and  simplicity  of 
feeling!" 

"Well,  I  say!  if  they  are  all  of  her  kidney!" 
was  all  I  remarked  to  Mme.  WildenhofT, 
as  I  returned  with  her  after  our  half-hour's 
call  at  Wieloleski's.  I  felt  a  good  deal  bored, 
and  mused  over  the  meaning  of  the  well- 
known  aphorism: 

Dans  la  bete  assouvie  un  ange  se  reveille* 

For  some  time  Imszanski  has  been  spend- 
ing his  evenings  at  home!  He  either  goes  out 
later  in  the  evening,  or  not  at  all,  and 
Martha's  hopes  are  reviving  within  her;  but 
I  do  not  take  this  conversion  of  his  very  se- 
riously. 

We  three  sit  together  frequently;  now  and 

When  the  brute's  gorged,   an  angel  wakes  within  it. 


172  Kobiety 

then  Czolhanski  and  Owinski,  or  Rosuchow- 
ski  drop  in. 

One  peculiarity  about  Owinski  is  the  con- 
tinual vague  absent  look  in  his  eyes,  caused 
by  his  extremely  short  sight.  He  cannot  see 
two  paces  in  front  of  him,  and  distinguishes 
people  by  their  voices  only.  His  facial  mus- 
cles are  in  constant  play;  and  he  never  smiles 
but  with  set  teeth.  He  is  very  far  indeed 
from  being  good-looking;  yet  I  do  not  won- 
der at  Gina's  loving  him  to  distraction. 

Witold  has  been  pleased  to  take  me  as  his 
confidante  now.  He  is  probably  feeling  com- 
punction for  his  recent  behaviour,  somewhat 
late  in  the  day. 

Life,  taken  in  general,  is  a  barren  waste. 
His  theory  of  love  does  not  permit  him  to 
hold  innocent  those  delusions  of  the  senses 
which  are  usually  termed  "bits  of  love-mak- 
ing," though  in  reality,  they  and  love  have 
nothing  in  common.  They  are  then  evil ;  but 
they  have  become  necessary  evils,  to  which 
men  have  in  the  course  of  ages  completely 
accustomed  themselves;  evils  from  which 
women — he  means  of  course  those  of  the  bet- 
ter classes — are  free,  and  against  which  they 
ought  to  be  guarded  with  the  utmost  care. 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      173 

By  means  of  this  reasoning,  he  considers  his 
relations  with  Martha  to  be  all  they  should 
be;  for  he  always  endeavoured  to  spare  her, 
and  to  preserve  her  high  ideals,  and  her  feel- 
ings of  purity. 

I  could  not  help  smiling  as  he  said  this, 
knowing  as  I  did  how  little  his  intention  had 
been  realized. 

But  now  he  too  seems  to  be  tiring  of  the 
life  he  leads — this  howling  wilderness  of  a 
life.  "These  women  are  so  shallow,  so  mind- 
less, so  fatuous!  Their  own  looseness  of  mor- 
als is  the  key-note  which  decides  every  one  of 
their  acts." 

I  could  now  shrewdly  guess  what  his  drift 
was. 

"Take,  for  instance,  Mme.  Wildenhoff. 
She  enjoys  a  change  of — affections — once  a 
month.  That's  her  business:  but  why  the 
devil  does  she  bring  in  Philosophy  and  So- 
ciology, and  Emancipation?  The  thing  she 
does  is  as  old  as  the  hills,  and  why  trouble 
about  her  and  women  like  her?" 

I  had  long  ago  made  the  remark  that  men 
object  to  women  who  argue.  On  the  other 
hand,  they  rate  their  souls  very  high  indeed. 
Now,  Witold  confesses,  it  is  the  soul — the 


174  Kobiety 

soul   alone,   the  soul   at  any  price — that  he 
wants  to  have. 

Who  knows  whether  he  will  not  again  be- 
come a  faithful  husband  to  Martha? 

I  dislike  all  colourless  people.  And  I  dis- 
like myself  along  with  them,  since  I  find  I 
am  growing  more  and  more  colourless  day  by 
day.  I  feel  out  of  sympathy  with  my  own 
type  of  character:  I  am  ordinary.  I  have 
had  enough  of  my  life;  more  than  enough 
of  it. 

How  terribly  I  am  craving  now  for  some 
one  who  shall  tell  me — and  tell  me  inces- 
santly— that  I  am  good-looking  and  clever 
and  original  in  mind,  that  I  dress  .nicely  and 
move  gracefully. 

For  though  at  this  moment  I  am  quite  sat- 
isfied that  none  of  these  things  are  so:  yet, 
if  I  were  told  so  this  day,  I  should  at  once 
believe  it  to  be  true. 

I  am  in  pain.  At  times  I  feel  a  special 
need  of  saying  all  that  I  think.  At  times  it 
is  so  hard  to  wear  a  mask.  .  .  .  And  I  want 
some  sympathy.  .  .  . 

I  was  at  the  WildenhofTs  to-day,  and  had 
a  talk  with  Witold.  I  cannot  conceive  how  it 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      175 

came  about,  but  on  a  sudden  I  found  I  was 
saying  too  much — or  rather,  speaking  too 
much  to  the  point. 

Finding  the  position  I  had  taken  up  was 
too  advanced  and  too  much  exposed,  I  decided 
to  beat  a  retreat. 

"But  can  you  conceive  in  what  the  tragedy 
of  my  life  consists  in  reality?"  I  asked. 

On  which,  in  mute  questioning,  he  raised 
his  beautiful  mournful  eyes  to  mine. 

"In  that  all  I  have  told  you  is  untrue 
.  .  .  and  all  I  have  not  told  you  is  untrue 
likewise.  It  is  my  style  to  talk  of  my  sadness 
one  day,  and  the  next  to  tell  of  my  life's  cloud- 
less philosophy." 

"And  to  whom  of  all  men  do  you  tell  the 
truth?  To  Wiazewski?  I  don't  know.  Per- 
haps to  no  one.  When  I  have  taken  off,  one 
after  another,  all  the  styles  I  wear,  there  is 
nothing  more  left  of  me." 

At  this  juncture,  Mme.  Wildenhoff,  dressed 
in  a  very  low-cut  black  velvet  gown,  came  up 
to  us. 

"Why  has  not  Martha  been  here  to-day?" 
she  asked.  "We  have  not  seen  her  for  ever 
so  long." 


176  Kobiety 

"She  meant  to  come  but  she  is  continually 
a  victim  to  sick  headaches." 

"Ah,  yes,  those  sick  headaches,"  she  re- 
marked sympathizingly.  "They  are  so  very 
hard  to  get  rid  of!" 

Presently  she  asked  if  I  would  come  and 
look  at  a  beautiful  screen,  a  birthday  gift  for 
her,  painted  by  Gina.  Imszanski  remained 
where  he  was. 

I  asked  Mme.  Wildenhoff  why  Owinski 
was  not  present. 

"Really,  I  cannot  say,"  was  her  answer. 
"He  was  to  come :  but  it  is  rather  late." 

"I  noticed  that  Gina  was  very  much  out  of 
sorts  to-day." 

"Yes,  and  I  must  say  that  I  feel  rather  un- 
easy about  her.  There  is  something  here  that 
I  cannot  at  all  understand,  and  I  love  the 
girl.  .  .  .  Owinski  is  perpetually  wool-gath- 
ering; he  is  a  man  you  cannot  rely  upon.  .  .  . 
He  strikes  me  as  one  who  would  be  deaf  to 
any  remonstrances,  any  reproaches.  .  .  .  He 
is  a  typical  poet.  .  .  ." 

"Then  it  may  be  that  Gina  is  wrong  in  hold- 
ing off  from  marriage  with  the  man." 

"Marriage?  A  fine  thing  that  would  be! 
She  is  surely  wealthy  enough  to  do  without 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers'*      177 

it.  ...  Marriage!"  she  added,  not  without  a 
touch  of  pride.  "Of  what  use  was  it  in 
Imszanski's  case,  I  beg?" 

She  just  looked  into  a  mirror,  hanging  op- 
posite her  bed,  and  then  swiftly  glanced  over 
me  from  head  to  foot.  The  comparison  be- 
tween us  must  have  been  not  unpleasant,  for 
ishe  at  once  became  more  cheerful  and 
friendly. 

"My  dear  Miss  Janina,  Gina's  is  a  nature 
far  too  artistic  for  marriage.  No  one  who  can 
paint  like  that  would  ever  make  a  husband 
of  her  sweetheart.  Pardon  me;  the  thing  is 
absolutely  out  of  the  question.  .  .  .  Look 
at  those  flowers;  with  what  grace  she  has 
dashed  them  off!" 

"They  are  certainly  exquisite.  But  did  you 
notice  how  extraordinary  an  interest  Owinski 
took  in  what  you  were  saying  about  marriage 
last  Thursday?" 

"Yes,  oh,  yes ;  I  remember.  .  .  .  But  I  can't 
suppose  he  is  thinking  of  marrying  any  one 
else.  .  .  .  No,  that  is  surely  impossible." 

She  was  at  once  in  a  state  of  great  excite- 
ment. 

"Look  here.  Now  that  marriage  is  no  more 
than  a  contract,  assuring  to  the  wife  board 


178  Kobiety 

and  lodging  for  self  and  offspring,  and  to  the 
husband  a  woman  in  permanency,  always  at 
home  and  on  the  qui  vive;  now  that  a 
bachelor  cannot  marry  until  he  has  achieved 
a  position  in  the  world,  so  that  a  marrying 
man  who  is  not  bald  sounds  like  a  contradictio 
in  adjecto, — marriage  amounts  in  principle  to 
the  same  as  prostitution,  whereas  its  every 
particular  is  yet  more  shocking." 

"I  am  afraid  I  don't  quite  follow  you." 
"Why,  the  thing  is  as  clear  as  clear  can  be. 
A  courtesan  makes  only  a  temporary  bargain, 
and  if  she  makes  it  for  a  longer  time,  she 
always  reserves  to  herself  complete  liberty  of 
action,  some  intervals  of  freedom,  and  the 
power  of  breaking  her  chain  whenever  she 
pleases;  whilst  the  'honest  woman'  makes  the 
bargain  for  her  whole  life,  without  any  hope, 
of  ever  being  set  free:  for  we  need  not  take 
divorce  into  account,  were  it  but  for  the  fact 
that  a  divorced  woman  is  adversely  viewed  by 
her  'honest'  sisters.  ...  A  common  courte- 
san, even  one  who  lodges  in  a  house  of 
ill  fame,  has  her  'Alphonse,'  some  one  to 
whom,  and  some  place  wherein  she  can  give 
sincere,  true  and  disinterested  love,  which  the 
average  honest  woman  cannot  dare  to  allow 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      179 

herself,  without  the  imminent  danger  of  los- 
ing her  right  of  alimony.  Now,  as  to  the 
moral  difference.  It  lies  in  this:  that  one 
possesses  only  one  husband,  together  with  the 
respect  of  society,  whereas  the  other  has 
many,  and  is  despised.  Though  I  cannot  for 
the  life  of  me  see  what  logical  connection 
there  is  between  a  number  of  lovers  and  the 
obligation  for  a  woman  to  respect  the  rights 
of  humanity.  Again:  the  police  take  charge 
of  the  street-walker's  health;  but  who  sees 
after  the  wife  that  her  own  husband  has  con- 
taminated? The  former  may  die  of  anything; 
the  other,  the  honest  woman,  in  childbed,  if 
married;  if  not — if,  having  no  portion,  she 
cannot  have  a  husband — she  may  die  of  what 
you  will — and  there  you  are!  And  Aboli- 
tionists arrange  congresses,  publish  books  and 
pamphlets,  found  philanthropic  institutions, 
refuges,  Christian  associations  to  raise  fallen 
women,  and  young  people's  leagues  to  shield 
their  purity  during  school-years.  All  this,  to 
what  purpose?  That  a  common  doctor,  and 
not  the  police,  should  see  after  the  street-girl's 
health;  that  a  few  silly  females  should  be  shut 
up,  not  in  bagnios,  but  in  sewing-rooms;  and 
that  some  women  may  have  to  teach  their  hus- 


i8o  Kobiety 

bands  certain  things  which  the  latter  have  not 
yet  learnt!  And  all  this  in  the  interest  of 
'coming  generations!'  An  empty  phrase.  Is 
not  all  that  most  ridiculous?" 

She  laughed;  but  to  me  her  words  were 
painful. 

"But  then,  instead  of  this,  are  we  to  do 
nothing?" 

"Not  at  all.  Let  us  found  homes  and 
refuges :  not  for  the  women,  but  for  the  chil- 
dren whose  mothers  are  unable  to  take  care 
of  them.  And  as  to  the  so-called  ignominy, 
that  will  remain ;  but  we  ought  to  laugh  it  to 
scorn.  And  allow  me  to  add,"  she  went  on, 
in  a  more  earnest  tone,  "that  to  loosen  in  so 
far  as  we  can  all  artificial  bonds  is  a  far  easier 
and  a  more  natural  task  than  to  draw  them 
still  tighter.  Both  roads  lead  to  the  same 
goal, — with  the  difference  that  in  one  case  the 
goal  would  signify  freedom,  and  in  the  other 
slavery." 

As  she  spoke,  I  remembered  what  Witold 
had  said  to  me  about  her. 

She  abruptly  broke  off.  "Oh,  let's  join  the 
company!  What  will  they  think  of  a  hostess 
who  neglects  her  guests  so!" 

In    the    drawing-room,    Owinski   had   not 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      181 

made  his  appearance  as  yet.  Gina,  as  beauti- 
ful as  a  portrait  by  some  Old  Master,  was  re- 
clining silently,  in  an  amaranthine-coloured 
easy-chair. 

Imszanski  shot  a  glance  and  a  faint  smile  at 
Mme.  Wildenhoff,  and  offered  me  his  arm  to 
go  in  to  supper. 

Whoever  it  was — Amiel,  I  think, — who 
maintained  that  women  do  not  care  to  be  an- 
alyzed, was  in  the  wrong.  It  is  rather  men 
who  dislike  such  analysis. 

Why  does  a  woman  rarely  fall  in  love  with 
a  man  inferior  to  herself?  Because  she  wants 
to  be  loved  for  all  that  is  in  her.  And  thence 
proceeds  the  grievance,  not  less  distasteful 
than  groundless,  that  men  do  not  look  on 
women  as  having  minds  as  well  as  bodies. 
Now  a  man  is  quite  satisfied  if  the  woman 
acknowledges  his  superiority  over  her. 

Those  whom  I  like  best  are  not  those  who 
attract  me  most,  but  who  are  able  to  compre- 
hend and  to  realize  my  whole  power  of  attrac- 
tion. That  is  why  I  dislike  to  hear  Imszanski 
babbling,  in  a  superficial  and  general  manner, 
of  the  excellence  of  my  nature,  not  knowing  in 
what  it  consists,  and  unable  to  grasp  it. 

And  that,  too,  is  why  I  have  a  liking  for 


1 82  Kobiety 

Wiazewski,  and  a  wish  that  he  could  find  it  in 
his  heart  to  love  me. 


Spring  is  coming.  With  a  hot  sun  over- 
head, there  is  a  cool  breeze  around.  I  feel 
joyful,  and  frolicsome,  and  full  of  animal 
spirits.  I  could  fall  upon  the  neck  of  the  first 
man  I  met  in  the  street!  To  be  loved  by  some- 
body, that  is  my  craving.  I  might  feel  less 
fearfully  alone  and  cut  off  from  everything  in 
the  world, — I  would  give  many  a  year  of  my 
life.  Lord!  if  anyone  would  kiss  me  .  .  . 
now! — Only,  not  one  of  those  .  .  .  Oh,  not 
one  of  them ! 

So  many  years  have  passed  away  since  that 
parting,  never  to  fade  out  of  my  mind!  Yes: 
he  was  the  only  man  I  could  ever  have  loved. 
.  .  .  How  quickly  it  all  passed  away,  and  how 
completely  it  all  came  to  an  end!  Strange. — 
A  bit  of  life. 

And  now  it  sleeps,  that  happiness, — sleeps 
beneath  the  flowery  palls  of  many  a  spring- 
time, past  and  gone. 

Such  a  spring;  oh,  well-a-day!  And  in  my 
heart  and  life  all  is  so  blank  and  so  dismal! 

I  have  lived  but  a  short,  a  very  short  time; 
and  notwithstanding,  how  many  and  how  fair 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      183 

flowers  or  memory  have  I  culled  I  If  I  could 
only  remember  them  all — all  of  them — why, 
then,  life  would  be  endurable  still. 

And  I  am  ever,  as  I  go  on,  closer  and  closer 
to  life:  I  wade  along,  athwart  its  foaming  and 
tempestuous  current;  but  it  is  in  vain  I  would 
try  to  plunge  into  its  waves  and  moisten  these 
lips  of  mine,  so  parched  with  thirst, — as  if  I 
were  traversing  a  sea  of  quicksilver,  whose  dry 
metallic  drops  fly  into  liquid  dust  when  they 
are  touched. 

And  still  I  have  to  wait — to  wait — to  wait 
for  something  else,  something  like  the  spring 
in  its  glamour  and  its  sunshine — to  wait  for  a 
marvel,  a  prodigy,  a  miracle,  that  is  to  come! 

In  company  with  Gina  and  Owinski,  I  was 
just  leaving  a  coffee-house.  In  front  of  us, 
surrounded  by  several  men,  there  walked  a 
woman,  rather  thickset,  far  from  tall,  who 
wore  a  short-skirted,  bright-coloured  dress, 
and  a  wide-brimmed  hat,  also  of  a  bright  hue. 
She  went  slowly,  with  an  undulating  motion 
of  the  hips,  turning,  now  to  right,  now  to  left, 
now  behind  her,  chattering  with  lively  inter- 
est, and  addressing  them  all  together,  her 
hands  meanwhile  nimble  with  gestures  like 
those  of  a  flower-girl  offering  nosegays.  We 


184  Kobiety 

caught  glimpses  of  her  profile, — very  long 
lashes  and  a  short  straight  nose.  There  seemed 
to  be  some  witchery  wafted  towards  me  from 
that  figure. 

"A  cocotte?"  I  asked  Gina. 

She  looked  at  her,  and  nodded,  with  a  low- 
ering face. 

We  had  previously  been  talking  of  love. 
She  resumed  the  subject  where  I  had  inter- 
rupted her. 

.  .  .  "Ah,  but  I  am  not  by  any  means  tell-  ^ 
ing  you  it  is  absolute  bliss.    No.     Love  only 
[intensifies  all  things  whatever:  and  thus,  not  J 
i  joy  only,  but  pain  as  well.    Love  is  an  exceed- 
|  ingly  powerful  stimulant,  the  strengthener 
(all  that  belongs  to  life.    And  this,  when  all  its 
colours  are  thus  suddenly  brightened  up,  be- 
comes like  some  magic  fairy  tale,  some  eter- 
nal Divine  Vision  of  life.  .  .  ." 

Owinski,  plunged  deep  in  his  musings,  was 
not  listening  to  us  at  all,  though  Gina  spoke 
especially  for  him.  The  golden  fire  which 
flashed  in  her  eyes  died  out  when  she  realized 
this. 

"We  ourselves  are  alone  in  fault;  it  is  we 
who  have  brought  about  that  immense  misery, 
the  fiery  pain  of  which  is  now  eating  our 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      185 

hearts  out.  For  every  time  we  have  turned  a 
man  away  from  us,  every  denial  of  the  lips 
that  belied  the  pulsing  of  the  blood  is  a  sin 
against  Life.  Every  such  night,  when  those 
who  craved  love  for  love  received  it  not,  but 
were  perforce  obliged  to  purchase  it  with  gold, 
is  a  sin  against  Life — of  which  we  are  guilty. 

"And  therefore  should  we  all — like  conse- 
crated priestesses, — go  forth: — forth  to  suffer- 
ing and  to  shame,  with  the  laughter  of  Spring, 
and  its  cry  Evoef  love  for  love,  joy  for  joy, 
pain  for  pain, — welling  up  from  our  hearts!" 

"But  why  then  pain?" 

"I  do  not  know;  but  so  it  has  to  be.  Surely 
you  feel  that  iiitense  joy  is  not  to  be  purchased 
without  intense  pain?7" 

Owinski,  looking  down  the  long  vista  of  the 
street,  took  not  the  slightest  interest  in  what 
she  was  saying.  Gina  became  silent;  it  may 
be  that  a  feeling  of  shame  had  come  upon  her. 

The  strangely  bewitching  woman  had 
stopped,  coming  to  a  sudden  standstill  to  take 
leave  of  some  of  her  companions.  Her  laugh- 
ter resounded  through  the  brightly  lit,  de- 
serted street,  with  all  the  effrontery  and  witch- 
ery of  Life  itself. 

Half-consciously,  Owinski  turned  towards 


186  Kobiety 

her,  and  so  did  we;  a  breath  of  the  coming 
spring  seemed  blowing  in  our  direction  thence. 

"Is  she  to  your  taste?"  Gina  asked  her 
fiance,  with  a  curiosity  in  her  tone  of  voice 
that  she  strove  to  make  light  of. 

"What  did  you  say? — oh,  I  don't  know, 
didn't  see  her,"  he  returned,  wool-gathering 
as  usual. 

Wishing  to  please  her,  he  again  turned 
round  to  look;  but  the  whole  company  had 
already  disappeared  in  the  doorway  of  a 
neighbouring  restaurant. 

Gina  took  his  arm,  with  a  gesture  of  fam- 
ished and  baffled  desire.  Laying  her  head  on 
the  sleeve  of  his  great-coat,  she  brushed  a  wisp 
of  hair  from  her  cheek. 

"No,"  she  said  to  me  in  an  undertone;  "no, 
I  cannot  tell;  I  myself  am  ignorant  of  the  end 
for  which  suffering  exists;  why  must  there 
always  be  suffering?" 

Still  Owinski  heard  not  a  word  we  said;  so 
we  could  converse  quite  freely.  For  my  part, 
I  could  not  love  a  man  so  continually  lost  in 
thought. 

"Seldom  have  I  happened  upon  a  type  in 
such  sharp  contrast  to  all  that  I  am,"  she  con- 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      187 

tinued,  alluding  to  the  woman  we  had  just 
seen. 

Far  down  in  Gina's  eyes,  whose  nervous  en- 
ergy was  tired  and  worn  out, — somewhere 
very  deep,  down, — there  shone  a  livid  gleam 
of  disquiet. 

She  gazed  searchingly  at  her  fiance,  but 
there  was  no  change  in  the  expression  of  his 
face.  After  a  time,  he  was  aware  that  her 
glance  was  upon  him;  then  he  bent  forward 
to  her,  and,  stroking  her  glove,  said  smiling: 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Gina?" 

"Nothing — only  love  for  you,"  she  whis- 
pered. 

Afterwards,  we  sat  with  Mme.  Wildenhoff 
almost  till  dawn. 

"What's  to  be  done?  If  he  loves  her  no 
longer,  he  cannot  be  forced  to  stay  with  her," 
said  Mme.  Lola  to  me,  speaking  of  Owinski, 
of  course.  "Changes  in  feeling  have  nothing 
in  common  with  ethics  and  the  sense  of  duty." 
.  .  .  And  so  on,  and  so  on. 

Gina  approached  us  presently. 

"To-morrow  I  shall  be  living  by  myself," 
she  told  us.  "I  am  now  in  such  a  state  that 
I  can't  bear  any  one,  not  even  so  amiable  a 
person  as  Idalia.  She  will  live  in  my  studio, 


i88  Kobiety 

which  she  likes  very  much,  and  the  room  that 
she  rented  formerly  will  now  be  let.  I  should 
greatly  like  to  find  another  tenant  for  her." 

Mme.  Wildenhoff  turned  upon  me  directly 
with  these  unexpected  words : 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  lodge  with  Idalia? 
She  plays  so  beautifully;  and  that  family  life 
must,  I  fancy,  bore  you  by  now." 

It  then  occurred  to  me  that  Mme.  Wilden- 
hofl's  intention  was  to  get  me  away  from  Ims- 
zanski!  Was  I  right?  Possibly. 

"I  shall  think  it  over,"  I  answered  in  a 
pleasant  tone.  "Though  indeed  I  like  just  as 
much  to  hear  Martha  play." 

This  staying  up  all  night  long  nearly  once 
every  forty-eight  hours  or  so  fatigues  me  be- 
yond measure.  They — that  is,  all  the  others 
— have  nothing  to  do;  they  rise  at  noon,  and 
enjoy  plenty  of  money  and  leisure;  and  their 
greatest  enjoyment  is  talking  interminably 
about  the  deepest  problems  of  existence.  But 
for  me,  what  with  having  battle  with  sleep  in 
the  morning,  to  walk  so  very  far  to  my  office 
through  mud  and  slush,  and  to  sit  motionless 
at  my  desk  for  so  many  hours,  those  nights 
charge  me  with  a  burden  very  hard  to  bear. 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      189 

I  have,  it  is  true,  a  frame  of  iron:  but  such  a 
life  would  wear  it  out  at  length. 

I  am  weary  and  miserable,  and  from  time 
to  time  I  feel  almost  distracted.  My  state  is 
that  of  one  who  has  an  appointment,  and 
waits,  waits,  waits,  through  the  hours  and 
through  the  years,  although  the  time  allotted 
to  keep  it  has  long  since  passed  by.  I  experi- 
ence the  same  fever  of  impatience,  the  same 
clutching  at  my  heart,  when  in  my  delusion 
I  think  I  can  at  last  hear  his  footsteps;  the 
same  chill  of  terror,  when  for  an  instant  I 
think  he  will  never  come. 

All  this  is  very  banal,  very  "missish."  Yes, 
I  know,  I  know.  But  now  and  then  it  is  sim- 
ply beyond  my  power  to  keep  down,  simply 
overwhelming.  For  the  time  assigned  to  me, 
the  wonderful  time  of  meeting  with  one  whom 
I  love,  fled  into  the  past  so  long,  so  long  ago! 

Ah,  it  has  come,  that  time!  It  came  yester- 
day. I  had  already  felt  it  in  the  air  for  many 
a  day;  it  was  in  Martha's  eyes;  my  own  heart 
told  me.  And  while  I  yearned  for  it  constant- 
ly, yet  did  I  fear  it  like  a  sentence  of  death. 

Having  returned  long  after  Martha   had 


190  Kobiety 

fallen  asleep,  he  noticed  that  there  was  a  light 
in  my  room,  and  tapped  gently.  I  did  not 
answer:  nevertheless  he  came  in. 

"How  late  you  have  stayed  up  reading!"  he 
said  in  a  whisper.  And  then,  seating  himself 
on  the  couch  beside  me,  he  remained  silent. 

Covering  my  eyes  with  my  hands,  I  let  my 
head  droop  as  low  as  to  his  knees,  and  in  an 
instant  was  possessed  with  a  mad,  frenzied 
effervescence  of  expectancy.  I  shivered  all 
over  as  with  the  ague;  then  shook  all  over 
with  soundless  laughter.  Something  was 
leaping  up  in  my  breast,  palpitating  in  my 
very  throat,  in  my  brain,  in  my  hands  that 
were  covering  my  eyes.  .  .  .  Had  this  un- 
paralleled excitement  lasted  but  one  moment 
more  I  should  have  cried  out  aloud  with  ter- 
ror and  agony. 

Then  in  an  instant  I  grew  quiet,  over- 
whelmed with  a  sense  of  sudden  numbness: 
and  I  let  my  head  droop  yet  lower.  Witold 
bent  over  me,  and  kissed  my  hair  and  shoul- 
ders. And  then  he  raised  up  my  head,  and 
showered  kisses  on  my  eyes  and  mouth  and 
throat. 

Not  one  word  of  love  did  we  speak.    Al- 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      191 

ready,  long  before,  we  had  understood  one 
another.  But  there  were  a  thousand  thoughts 
rushing  through  my  brain. 

He  bent  his  marvellously  beautiful  head 
down  to  my  knees,  and  whispered  low  some 
few  strange  inaudible  words — words  of  in- 
cantation, words  of  magic :  he  could  afford  to 
be  humble,  for  he  was  like  a  king  who  knows 
how  mighty  he  is  and  how  supreme.  And 
then  his  lips  were  very  red,  as  on  fire.  .  .  . 

All  at  once  I  shook  myself  free  with  a  hiss- 
ing intake  of  the  breath,  and  gently  extricated 
myself  from  his  embrace. 

"What,  my  Queen  of  the  Icy  Caverns!"  he 
said  in  sport,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  mine. 
"Has  some  thought  of  death  come  to  make 
you  afraid?" 

"No;  I  was  thinking  of  Martha." 

His  bantering  humour  left  him  at  once. 

"Oh!  for  once  in  our  lives  surely  we  might 
learn  to  think  only  of  ourselves,"  he  said,  and 
his  tone  showed  that  he  was  vexed  with  me. 

"And  have  you  found  that  lesson  so  very 
hard  to  learn?" 

"That's  unkind  of  you,"  he  whispered,  and 
closed  my  mouth  with  a  kiss.  .  .  . 


192  Kobiety 

"And  now  I  have  no  more  love  left,  not 
even  for  my  husband.  Not  that  I  love  an- 
other, not  that  Witold  has  made  me  suffer 
torments  beyond  endurance.  No:  I  am  mere- 
ly unable  to  feel  anything  else  in  the  world 
save  pain.  The  very  thought  of  him  is  a  tor- 


ture." 


As  she  spoke,  I  bowed  my  head  very  low. 

"It  may  be  that  there  is  some  world  in 
which  Kant's  'categories'  do  not  hold,  where 
we  are  out  of  Space,  out  of  Time.  I  believe 
it  is  so.  Sometimes  space  does  not  exist  for 
me:  I  have  the  power  to  see  all  those  he  has 
loved  with  him  in  one  place.  There  are  mo- 
ments, too,  when  time  does  not  exist  for  me: 
I  can  see  them  all  together  in  one  instant — 
both  those  that  have  been  and  those  that  are 
to  be;  yes,  those  that  are  to  be,  Janka." 

From  under  her  brows  she  threw  me  a  ques- 
tioning glance,  and  went  on: 

"But  I  can  see,  I  can  fancy  nothing,  save 
under  the  mental  form  of  Pain.  Yes,  and  I 
have  thus  discovered  a  new  'category'!" 

It  were  difficult  to  say  why,  just  at  that  mo- 
ment, I  remembered  Wieloleski  and  his  dis- 
covery that  land-owning  was  also  a  "cate- 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"       193 

gory,"  and  this  put  me  in  a  humour  of  pleas- 
antry that  it  was  not  easy  to  shake  off. 

"Looked  at  through  this  prism  of  Pain," 
she  continued,  "the  sun  itself  is  black,  the  most 
superb  flowers  in  the  Red  Garden  turn  to 
tongues  of  flame,  and  the  cistern  filled  with 
flowers  of  bliss  changes  into  an  infinite,  infin- 
ite ocean  of  blood." 

She  looked  round,  and  shuddered. 

"Pray,  Janka,  do  not  go  to  bed  to-night;  do 
not  leave  me  alone  during  the  dark  hours. 
Truly,  I  cannot  remember  when  he  went  out. 
I  think  he  was  not  at  all  at  home  to-day." 

"Yes,  he  was;  he  dined  with  us." 

She  passed  her  hand  over  her  brow. 

"You  are  right,  but  it  doesn't  matter.  At 
any  rate,  he  will  not  be  here  till  morning. 
Janka,  do  not  sleep  in  your  room!" 

By  this  time  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  en- 
dure the  sight  of  Martha.  She  fills  me  with 
such  mystic  awe  that  I  am  ready  to  shriek 
aloud  with  dread  of  her.  I  feel  as  though  I 
were  the  cause  of  all  her  afflictions,  as  if  it 
were  I  who  have  marred  her  life.  Her  eyes 
hurt  me — those  great  dark-blue,  sorrowful 


194  Kobiety 

eyes.  But  all  the  same  it  must  make  no  differ- 
ence to  her;  to  her  who — 

On  returning  from  the  office,  I  stepped  in 
to  Mme.  Wildenhoff's,  to  see  about  the  room 
Gina  spoke  of.  At  any  price,  I  must  get  away 
from  here.  I  want  never  to  see  either  her  or 
him  any  more. 

Mme.  Wildenhoff  was  a  little  paler  than 
her  wont;  she  looked  out  of  sorts,  and  com-, 
plained  that  her  head  ached.  I  understood 
that  something  had  gone  wrong  between  him 
and  her.  And  again  my  heart  was  crushed 
with  fear.  Only  when  I  looked  at  her  did  I 
remember  that  she  likewise —  ...  I  had  for 
the  time  being  entirely  forgotten  that  fact. 
My  first  impulse  was  to  flee  her;  but  Mme. 
Wildenhoff  retained  me  against  my  will.  She, 
I  think,  has  not  made  any  definite  guess ;  but 
the  other! 

"I  must  confess  to  you,"  she  began,  "that 
all  I  have  made  you  think  of  me  is  untrue — a 
mask  of  mine,  a  mannerism,  an  empty  theory. 

nAll  women  are  at  their  heart's  core  exactly 
alike;  during  all  their  life  they  follow  one 
thing  alone,  and  perish  in  pursuit  of  it." 

"You  mean  love?"  I  questioned,  trying 
clumsily  to  feign  indifference. 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"       195 

"Yes.  That  is  the  one  thing.  It  is  our  fate; 
if  not  the  first  thing  that  we  pursue,  it  is  al- 
ways the  last  that  we  give  up.  There  is  no 
help  for  it — none.  We  may  be  all  our  life 
forcing  upon  ourselves  the  conviction  that  we 
have  the  same  rights  as  men,  and  are  capable 
of  bearing  the  same  amount  of  liberty  as  they; 
but  there  must  come  a  moment  when,  for  that 
one  true  love,  we  most  willingly  give  up  all 
\  its  counterfeits." 

"But  you  have,  Madame,  the  comfort  to 
know  that  men  too  are  liable  to  a  similar  re- 
action. When  quite  sated  with  freedom,  the 
very  greatest  profligates  will  settle  down  to  a 
married  life." 

"Only  for  a  short  while,  and  then  they  be- 
gin all  over  again,  and  return  to  their  favour- 
ite pastime.  .  .  .  Why,  take  Imszanski,  for 
instance;  you  surely  know  him  well.  .  .  ." 

My  face  flushed  up  as  red  as  fire,  but  I  un- 
dauntedly raised  my  eyes  to  hers.  She,  on 
encountering  my  gaze,  blushed,  too.  Once 
more  I  felt  an  uneasy  flutter  at  my  heart. 

She  burst  into  a  sudden  transport. 

"I  love,  I  love,  and  without  any  return! — 
Oh,  how  unlike  me,  is  it  not?" 

Whereupon  she  laughed  hysterically,  and 


196  Kobiety 

then  shed  tears,  tearing  at  her  handkerchief 
with  her  teeth.  She  was  waiting  for  me  to 
put  her  some  questions,  that  she  might  be  able 
to  confide  her  sorrows  to  me.  I  thought  I 
should  soon  be  likely  to  go  mad. 

At  last  Gina  came  in.  She  took  me  to 
Idalia,  a  fairly  well-known  pianist,  who  re- 
turned here  from  Paris  a  year  since. 

The  room  was  very  much  to  my  taste;  so 
was  Idalia.  There,  all  is  tranquil  and  artistic. 
There  I  find  nothing  of  that  monstrous  life 
which  hurts  me  so — that  lie  which  I  feel  here 
in  my  eyes  as  they  look,  in  my  mouth  as  it 
speaks! 

Now  I  have  left  the  Imszanski's  for  good. 
Even  for  my  nature,  life  with  them  was  too 
exquisite  a  torment. 

Martha,  according  to  her  custom,  has  un- 
derstood everything  but  let  nothing  come  to 
her  as  a  surprise.  Nor  has  she  in  any  way 
altered  her  behaviour  towards  me. 

When  I  told  her  it  was  too  far  for  me  to  go 
from  her  house  to  the  office,  she  never  asked 
why,  during  close  upon  three  years,  I  had  not 
noticed  the  distance.  She  appears  not  to  know 
that  I  am  aware  she  has  no  more  trust  in  me. 

When,  for  the  last  time,  I  entered  my  room, 


''Garden  of  Red  Flowers"       197 

in  which  there  was  but  little  change  (for  only 
a  few  of  my  things  had  been  brought  to  their 
flat)  I  burst  out  crying.  Martha  stood  by  my 
side,  grave  and  mournful. 

Later,  too,  at  the  moment  of  my  departure, 
there  came  to  me  a  horrible  pain  of  un- 
bounded bewilderment,  that  took  me,  so  to 
speak,  suddenly  by  the  throat.  All  this  was, 
I  thought,  so  heart-rending,  so  incomprehen- 
sible! 

Imszanski  was  speaking  to  the  porter  who 
helped  the  man-servant  to  take  my  things 
downstairs.  Then  I  asked  Martha:  "Don't 
you — don't  you  think  it  were  better  for  me  to 
die  now,  this  instant?" 

A  smile  dawned  in  her  face,  which  she 
averted  to  hide  it. 

"No,"  she  said;  "there  is  no  need.  Nothing 
comes  to  me  unexpectedly  now.  .  .  .  And  lat- 
terly I  have  found  an  enemy — in  myself  be- 
sides." 

Quietly,  daintily,  she  kissed  me  on  the  lips, 
and  then,  with  a  gracious  gesture,  gave  her 
hand  to  Imszanski,  who  was  going  out  to  take 
me  to  my  new  abode. 

I  sit  for  a  long  time,  spending  the  evening 
with  Imszanski.  And  I  enjoy  myself.  Al- 


198  Kobiety 

though  I  do  not  for  one  instant  forget  her, 
that  graceful  melancholy  woman,  who  now  is 
wandering  through  the  magnificent  apart- 
ments of  her  lonely  dwelling,  always  awaiting 
him,  though  she  knows  he  will  not  come,  and 
at  the  slightest  noise  rushing  to  the  ante- 
chamber, listening  with  her  ear  close  against 
the  door,  and  her  brain  on  fire  with  excite- 
ment. But  the  billows  of  undisturbed  still- 
ness are  beating  all  around  her.  .  .  .  And 
then  she  goes  back  to  her  rooms,  and  seats  her- 
self upon  an  easy  chair,  and  again  upon  a 
lounge,  trying  to  fall  asleep ;  and  to  keep  her- 
self from  sobbing  aloud,  she  bites  her  fingers 
hard.  .  .  .  And  in  a  little  while  she  goes  once 
again  and  listens  at  the  ante-chamber  door. 
For  now  I  am  no  longer  by  her  side ;  now  she 
is  quite,  quite  alone;  and  so  cruelly  aban- 
doned! 

Not  for  an  instant  do  I  forget  all  this;  and 
yet  I  enjoy  myself.  The  faint  bitterness  of 
this  tragedy  gives,  I  suppose,  an  additional 
flavour  to  our  amorous  and  delightful  dal- 
liance. 

Witold  would  prefer  not  to  speak  of  the 
subject,  which  I  nevertheless  bring  forward 
again  and  again. 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      199 

"But  tell  me  now,  how  could  you  behave 
with  such  abominable  baseness,  forcing  your- 
self into  Martha's  life  so?  For  you  married 
her  under  downright  compulsion:  I  well  re- 
member that  she  resisted  with  all  her  might. 
Were  you  at  the  time  really  in  love  with  her?" 

"She  attracted  me  extremely,  and  I  was 
puzzled  by  her  great  love  for  virginity. 
Never  before  had  I  found  any  woman  with 
the  instinct  developed  to  such  a  degree.  And 
I  was  then  in  a  romantic,  an  idealistic,  a  Pla- 
tonic mood,  with  which  Martha  harmonized 
to  perfection." 

"Well,  and  how  was  it  that  this  mood  of 
yours  came  to  alter  so  quickly?" 

"I  found  Martha  just  a  little  disappointing: 
and  even  at  the  time  when  I  married  her  I  was 
quite  sure  that  she  could  not  satisfy  me  for 
long.  All  that  alluring  mystery  of  her  ascetic 
philosophy  of  life  merely  proceeded  from 
anaemia  and  poverty  of  temperament." 

"Witold!  Witold!  do  go  back  to  her  again. 
For  remember;  I  shall  never  love  you  as  she 
does." 

"No,  I  will  not;  I  will  not,"  and  he  gath- 
ered me  in  his  arms:  "I  will  not  leave  you, 
nor  would  I,  even  if  you  came  to  hate  me. 


200  Kobiety 

Besides :  what,  in  this  whole  affair,  has  pained 
Martha  most?  Why,  it  is  your  leaving  us. 
She  is  always  sitting  in  your  room;  and  she 
very  often  talks  of  you,  and  wonders  why  you 
don't  come." 

I  had  reached  the  conclusion  that  all 
Witold  had  said  was  but  of  a  piece  with  the 
rest  of  Martha's  behaviour,  studiously  correct 
in  regard  of  him:  but  I  have  got  a  letter  from 
her  to-day. 

"Come  to  me,  Janka,  come!  Do  not  bear 
me  more  ill-will  than  I  bear  to  you.  Remem- 
ber that  everything  in  our  relations  is  still  just 
as  it  was  before.  The  memories  are  too  deep- 
rooted  ;  I  cannot Once  I  loved  you  even 

more  than— 

"I  await  you.    M." 

I  shall  go  to  her  to-morrow. 

She  received  me,  clad  in  a  black  dressing- 
gown,  with  grey  borders  and  a  silver  fringe. 
I  found  it  hard  to  conceal  the  painful  impres- 
sion that  I  felt.  We  talked  together  in  a 
friendly  way  for  about  an  hour. 

With  some  air  of  mystery,  she  explained  to 
me  the  idea  she  had  of  fitting  up  a  boudoir 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      201 

entirely  in  mourning.  "It  might  be  made 
quite  ornamental.  The  walls  hung  with 
crepe,  the  furniture  of  black  wood,  uphol- 
stered with  white  plush,  crosses  of  silver  and 
of  ebony,  standing  and  suspended  chandeliers 
of  silver,  a  profusion  of  such  flowers  as  are 
used  to  dress  a  catafalque,  a  large  table  in  the 
centre,  covered  with  a  black  cloth.  And  the 
boudoir  lit  with  wax  tapers  only." 

She  then  showed  me  an  album  bound  in 
black  leather,  with  a  silver  cross  that  stood 
out  in  relief  on  the  cover. 

With  an  embarrassed  smile,  she  explained 
its  contents  to  me. 

"Here  I  have  placed  all  Witold's  loves,  in 
chronological  order,"  she  said,  and  the  very 
sound  of  his  name  made  her  blush  hotly. 
"The  number  looks  very  great  indeed,  but  this 
is  because  I  have  in  many  cases  several  por- 
traits of  the  same  person." 

I  looked  it  over  for  a  time,  enthralled  and 
captivated  by  these  faces,  each  of  a  different 
type,  some  laughing,  some  grave,  some  pa- 
thetic, others  comical  or  exotic  or  common- 
place, these  full  of  fire,  those  ethereal-look- 
ing; many  attired  in  the  strangest  raiment,  or 
posing  in  voluptuous  attitudes,  and  stretching 


2O2  Kobiety 

out  their  half-nude  limbs  with  serpent-like 
grace, — all  these  surrounded  with  Oriental 
magnificence:  and  again  exquisite  women, 
very  lady-like  in  their  British  stiffness,  and 
the  sexless  elegance  of  their  tailor-made 
dresses  simple  but  striking.  A  multitudinous 
chaotic  assembly  of  many  a  style  and  many  a 
nationality,  down  to  one  monstrously  sensual 
negress,  no  doubt  a  singer  in  some  music-hall. 

"Since  you  have  been  away,"  she  said,  "it 
has  been  a  custom  with  me  to  pore  over  this 
album.  Those  different  faces  remind  me  of 
the  different  periods  of  my  life.  I  possess  but 
few  belonging  to  the  old  times  of  Witold's 
love-making;  but  of  those  he  loved  since  he 
married,  not  one  is  wanting  here.  Some  of 
them  I  purchased  myself." 

"That,"  I  observed,  "was  of  old  a  custom 
of  yours.  I  remember  well  how  as  a  girl  the 
collections  you  liked  best  to  make  were 
post-cards  with  photographs  of  handsome 
actresses." 

"Oh,  but  that  was  quite  different,"  she  re- 
plied with  a  shake  of  the  head.  "I  feel  such 
a  pleasure  in  gloating  over  this  collection!" 

"Yes,  the  pleasure  you  take  in  self-inflicted 
torture!" 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      203 

"No,  not  even  that.  You  see,  I  gaze  at 
those  beautiful  faces,  those  full  red  voluptu- 
ous mouths,  those  white  rounded  shoulders,  so 
pleasantly  smooth  and  soft;  I  look  through 
the  garments  and  see  the  colour  of  the  flesh 
beneath :  and  each  of  these  women  I  fancy  de- 
lirious, swooning  in  his  arms;  and  so  I  feed 
my  mind  with  the  thought  of  their  delight  in 
him — or  perhaps  (I  am  not  quite  sure  which) 
of  his  delight  in  them!" 

Her  nostrils  were  quivering.  She  settled 
herself  in  her  soft-cushioned  seat,  and  closed 
her  eyelids ;  they  were  red  with  tears. 

On  one  of  the  first  pages  of  the  album  I 
found  Mary  Wieloleska,  clad  as  an  Algerian 
girl,  blithe  and  blandishing,  and  far  better- 
looking  than  in  reality.  Towards  the  end 
there  were  about  a  dozen  photographs  of 
Mme.  Wildenhoff,  and  one — a  small  one — of 
that  French  actress  whom  we  had  seen  at 
Lipka's  restaurant.  The  thought  flashed  upon 
me — a  very  unflattering  one  assuredly — that 
she  had  already  placed  me  there  too;  but,  sit- 
ting as  I  was  by  Martha's  side,  I  could  not 
possibly  look  at  the  last  page.  Besides,  she 
herself  held  the  album,  and  showed  me  no 


204  Kobiety 

photographs  after  those  of  Mme.  Wildenhoff 
and  of  the  French  actress. 

The  same  thought  occurred  to  us  both  at 
once,  and  it  cast  over  us  the  shadow  of  a 
moody  silence. 

She  laid  her  head  on  my  bosom,  and  closed 
her  eyes  with  an  expression  of  the  utmost 
fatigue. 

"Don't  go  on  like  that,"  I  said  to  her  sooth- 
ingly. "That  way  madness  lies,  and  you 
might  easily  get  there." 

"Oh,  that  is  very  likely.  Indeed  I  wish  I 
may.  Oh,  to  lose  memory,  and  consciousness, 
and  all  feeling!"  And  then:  "For  I  am  ever- 
lastingly wringing  my  own  heart,  Janka!"  she 
added,  very  sorrowfully. 

Silently,  I  stroked  her  long  dishevelled  hair, 
and  all  the  while,  with  tender  craving  and 
emotional  entrancement,  my  mind  was  revert- 
ing to  Witold. 

"Are  you  my  husband's  paramour  by  now?" 

It  was  with  some  surprise  that  I  was  aware 
the  question  evoked  in  me  a  reaction  of  out- 
raged dignity.  But  I  choked  down  the  feel- 
ing, and  unembarrassed,  though  with  down- 
cast eyes,  I  answered,  in  a  low  voice : 

"No,  not  as  yet." 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      205 

"That  is  better.  You  may  then  presently 
become  his  wife." 

Her  mouth  was  slightly  twitching.  She  has 
that  most  unpleasant  habit  of  melting  with 
compassion  over  her  own  woes. 

"Only,  please,  Martha,  not  death!  Don't 
let  us  hear  about  death!" 

"I  am  in  a  very  bad  way." 

"The  idea!  You  always  have  been  so  ter- 
ribly afraid  to  die;  you  told  me  so.  Do  you 
remember?" 

"Oh,  but  it's  quite  another  thing  now! — 
Afraid  of  death,  I? — No,  I  desire  it  with  all 
the  desire  of  my  wretched  heart.  Yes,  I  de- 
sire it  that  you  may  become  his  wife,  that  you 
may  yourself  fathom  the  depths  of  the  tor- 
tures I  have  gone  through,  and  bask  (as  I  am 
doing)  in  the  beams  of  the  bliss  they  give ;  that 
you,  like  me,  may  taste  the  delight  of  them  by 
cupfuls  brimming  over! — Yet  more,  yet  more! 
—May  you  quaff  your  fill  of  wormwood,  till 
you  overflow  with  it! — be  suffocated  with  the 
mortal  scent  of  those  flowers  of  his — drink  in 
their  odoriferous  delight  and  the  poisonous 
steam  of  them,  even  to  agony,  even  to  death! 
—May  I  be  avenged,  when  you  are  forced  to 
yield  him  up  to  another!  And  may  the  knowl- 


206  Kobiety 

edge  that  even  death  itself  is  no  sufficient  ex- 
piation, make  the  bitterness  of  your  last  hour 
bitterer  still.  ...  Oh,  God!" 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands;  she  was 
trembling  all  over  with  the  violence  of  her 
spasmodic  outburst.  Finally,  she  fell  on  her 
knees  before  me,  covering  my  hands  with 
kisses  that  I  felt  burning  hot. 

"No,  Janka,  these  words  of  mine  are  not 
true:  they  are  lies, — lies!  There  is  no  longer 
any  hatred  at  all,  nor  any  thirst  for  vengeance: 
there  is  none — I  love  you!  ...  I  shall  die, 
that  you  may  be  happy — in  his  Red  Garden — 
and  that  he  too  may  be  happy  by  your  side. 
Don't  you  believe  me?  Won't  you  look  into 
my  heart?  My  only  wish  is  for  your  happi- 
ness :  beyond  this,  I  have  no  wish  whatsoever. 
.  .  .  I  humble  myself  at  your  feet  thus,  see! 
and  bless  you  that  in  your  turn  you  have  taken 
away  from  me  what  to  me  is  dearer  than  life 
itself;  that  you  have  poured  into  the  cistern 
of  my  bliss  the  last  drop  of  that  nectar  which 
inebriates  unto  death.  I  love  you:  it  was 
Christ,  was  it  not?  who  gave  the  command 
that  we  ought  to  love  our  enemies.  .  .  .  Hear 
me ! — I  am  dying  that  you  may  be  happy  with 
him.  I  wish  you  all  happiness.  I  want  to  re- 


"Garden  of  Red  Flowers"      207 

ceive  death  at  your  hands, — your  beautiful 
hands,  so  soft  to  caress.  I  would  not  have  you 
feel  any  twinge  of  remorse :  I  would  you  could 
kill  me,  and  yet  not  know  that  my  death 
has  cleared  the  way  for  your  triumphal 
chariot. — Oh,  Janka!  be  happy!" 

Her  head  fell  back;  her  eyes  closed  fast, 
and  her  teeth  were  clenched,  showing  between 
her  half-open  lips. 

"Slay  me,  Oh,  slay  me!" 

Now  she  has  fainted.  I  lift  her  up,  and  lay 
her  limp  and  lifeless  body  on  a  couch. 

The  purple  chamber  grows  dark  in  the 
gathering  twilight. 


Ill 

A  CANTICLE  OF  LOVE 

"I  EXPECT  you  will  be  here  in  a  day  or  two; 
so  this  letter  will  never  be  sent.  I  am  writing 
only  to  be  alone  with  you  this  evening;  and 
if  I  write  it,  it  is  but  for  my  own  sake. 

"It  is  an  autumn  evening,  most  marvellous- 
ly fine.  I  want  to  be  with  you.  For  I  do  love 
you,  my  dear,  my  only  one! 

"The  earth  is  black,  the  sky  is  blue,  the 
gloom  is  deepening.  A  little  while  since, 
Idalia  handed  me  a  letter  from  you;  and  now 
I  am  in  a  vein  of  tenderness.  I  will  not  even 
chide  you  for  excess  of  openness  in  your  nat- 
uralistic way  of  expressing  your  desires. 
There  are  moments  when  I  can  pardon  every- 
thing. ...  I  want  to  show  that  I  love  you, 
very  truly  and  very  much.  The  days  of  my 
ill-humour,  the  days  of  my  dark  misgivings, 
have  passed  away  now,  and  the  days  of  bright 
vision  are  come.  This  very  morning  I  was 

208 


A  Canticle  of  Love  209 

saying  to  Idalia  that  I  should  advise  her  not 
to  fall  in  love,  for  I  am  so  far  gone  that  I  can- 
not fancy  myself  capable  of  loving  anybody 
but  you.  .  .  . 

"I  should  be  a  hundred  times  better  to  you 
than  I  am,  if  I  were  not  afraid.  For  now, 
since  you  made  your  confession,  I  feel  afraid 
lest  you  should  get  the  upper  hand:  and  in 
love,  I  do  not  believe  that  two  can  both  be  on 
an  equal  footing.  And  if  I  but  yield  up  to 
you  one  jot  of  my  rights — anything  whatever 
—you  show  no  generous  feeling  at  all,  but  tri- 
umph over  my  self-abasement,  as  if  it  were 
abjection.  Witold,  have  some  little  generous 
feeling;  allow  me  to  rest  for  a  moment  from 
this  eternal  watch  I  must  keep  over  myself; 
let  me  love  you  in  peace,  were  it  only  for  a 
short  while. 

"Again  and  again,  the  painful  thought  is 
borne  in  upon  me,  that — this  time  as  well  as 
the  last — the  pleasure  of  meeting  you  will  not 
compensate  for  the  pain  of  longing  when 
apart.  My  mind  misgives  me,  too,  that  you 
might  have  come  to-day,  but  did  not:  Why? 
you  really  didn't  know,'  as  once  before.  I 
make  no  reproaches,  but  am  a  little  piqued, 
and  may  once  more  go  off,  as  I  did  last  spring, 


210  Kobiety 

in  order  to  get  away  from  you,  so  that  you 
may  learn  better  how  genial,  how  clever,  how 
incomparable  I  am. 

"There  is  no  doubt  about  it:  you  love  me 
more  than  I  love  you.  And  if  I  say  this  so 
frankly,  that  is  only  because  it  is  not  abso- 
lutely true.  Now  I  am  going  to  tell  you  a 
most  important  thing,  which  I  never  yet 
pointed  out  to  you  quite  clearly,  and  to  which 
you  have  to  give  a  direct  answer.  So,  atten- 
tion ! — We  might  love  each  other  equally,  but 
I  love  you  less:  why? — Because  you  do  not 
make  yourself  in  the  least  uneasy  about  my 
love,  neither  as  to  what  you  confess  you  have 
done,  nor  (which  is  far  more  important)  as 
to  the  disposition  you  may  be  in  at  the  time. 
You  have  done  what  you  have  done,  and  you 
feel  as  you  feel ;  and  you  find  frankness  a  more 
convenient  thing  than  concealment.  And  so 
I  must  constantly  keep  your  love  at  high 
pressure,  forcing  my  disposition,  and  not 
showing  what  I  really  feel.  Now  this  is  un- 
just. Once  you  said  to  me :  'Never  allow  me 
to  get  the  upper  hand,  for  I  should  make  a 
slave  of  you:  as  soon  as  Martha  became  my 
slave,  I  ceased  to  love  her.'  I  then  resolved 
to  hold  my  position  of  superiority,  became 


A  Canticle  of  Love  211 

more  secret,  less  natural;  and  all  that  is  in 
me  of  feebleness,  abasement,  poverty  of  spirit, 
— the  ewig  Weibliches — I  most  carefully 
locked  up  and  kept  to  myself  alone,  in  order 
to  provide  our  love  with  a  longer  existence, 
which  surely  concerns  you  as  much  as  myself. 
If  now  I  told  you  not  to  press  your  cheek 
against  my  dress,  nor  humble  yourself  before 
me,  because  I  cannot  love  where  I  do  not  hon- 
our—you would  begin  to  sulk  and  to  tell  me, 
with  the  air  of  a  cross  sullen  child,  that  you 
are  the  one  of  us  two  who  loves  most,  and  that 
I  have  shown  myself  a  selfish  girl. — In  my 
opinion,  the  preservation  of  our  mutual  love 
is  the  affair  of  us  both,  and  like  an  altar  on 
which  we  should  both  of  us  sacrifice  absolute 
sincerity,  especially  as  concerns  passing  dis- 
positions, and  more  especially  such  as  imply 
self-abasement;  we  must  play  a  part,  wear  a 
mask,  and  keep  strictly  to  ourselves  all  such 
grievances  as  might  lower  one  in  the  eyes  of 
the  other.  So  I  ask  you,  who  know  this  well 
by  the  experience  of  your  own  life:  am  I  right 
or  not?  If  I  am,  then :  Do  you  intend  to  make 
me  love  you  as  much  as  you  love  me,  or  would 
you  lower  the  level  of  your  love  to  that  of 
mine?  That  is:  will  you  bear  the  burden  of 


212  Kobiety 

constant  watchfulness  with  me,  or  do  you  de- 
liberately consent  that  I  should  set  it  aside? — 
Answer  me  that.  And  do  not  forget  all  about 
it  in  ten  minutes. — And,  in  spite  of  all,  I  love 
you  very  much.  J.  D." 

Witold  returned  only  yesterday.  He  was 
at  a  great  shooting  party  in  Klosow,  where  he 
was  obliged  to  go,  as  a  proof  of  his  friendly 
relations  with  Janusz,  and  so  put  a  stop  to 
rumours  rife  among  the  neighbouring  gentry 
that  Martha  and  he  were  separated.  Once  I 
forbade  Janusz  to  shoot  hares;  all  that  has 
long  ago  been  forgotten,  and  now  he  aston- 
ishes everybody  by  his  skill  as  a  marksman. 
The  Past— is  the  Past! 

These  few  last  years,  which  have  not  told 
at  all  upon  Witold,  have  changed  Janusz  be- 
yond recognition.  He  has  married  "a  young 
lady  from  the  country,"  and  grown  fat  and 
rubicund  and  common;  he  has  four  sons,  of 
whom  he  is  excessively  proud:  Witold  brings 
me  news  that  he  is  expecting  a  fifth  shortly. 
The  former  wild  primitiveness  of  his  nature 
only  shows  itself  now  on  his  occasional  visits 
to  town,  when  he  carouses  and  revels  furious- 
ly, in  company  with  Witold. 


A  Canticle  of  Love  213 

As  to  his  sister  Martha,  she  has  been  in  Ger- 
many for  about  six  months,  staying  at  a  sana- 
torium for  nervous  patients.  She  is  allowed 
neither  to  receive  any  letters  nor  to  write  any. 
We  only  now  and  then  get  news  from  the  doc- 
tor, saying  that  she  is  better,  and  will  soon  be 
able  to  return  to  her  home.  She  is,  as  the 
kindly  German  has  the  politeness  to  add,  al- 
ways pining  after  her  husband  and  her  son. 
The  latter  is  being  brought  up  with  Janusz's 
boys,  and  the  country  air  must  have  a  very 
salutary  influence  upon  his  system. 

I  took  but  a  very  short  leave  this  summer, 
spending  nearly  all  the  time  in  town  with 
Witold,  and  leading  something  like  a  domes- 
tic life;  for  he  shows  himself  in  my  case  very 
particular  about  keeping  up  appearances.  I 
wonder  why,  in  his  former  relations  with 
Mme.  Wildenhoff,  he  never  cared  a  fig  for 
them !  Perhaps  he  means,  by  taking  such  care, 
to  show  how  much  he  esteems  me. 

He  read  my  letter  through,  but  made  no 
comments  on  it;  he  suddenly  remembered 
some  incident  at  the  shooting-party,  telling  it 
to  me.  And  then  he  set  about  caressing  and 
kissing  me :  he  had  been  wanting  me  so  very, 
very  badly! 


214  Kobiety 

"But  answer  my  question,  Witold,"  I  said. 

"How  can  I?  I  don't  know,"  was  his  an- 
swer, as  he  ardently  kissed  my  inquisitorial 
eyes. 

"Janka,  is  not  this  the  best  answer  of  all?" 

He  is  always  like  that.  My  looks  set  us 
apart,  his  kisses  unite  us  together. 

But  I  am  wrestling,  held  in  the  grip  of  my 
love,  as  a  kite  that  soars  above  the  clouds 
wrestles  with  the  string  held  by  a  boy  at  play! 

Idalia  is  not  averse  to  having  company  at 
her  lodgings,  where  I  have  met  several  char- 
acters in  the  artistic  world. 

Wiazewski  cannot  hear  "Bohemianism." 
Yet  in  spite  of  this  he  not  unwillingly  comes, 
too,  to  see  us,  and  to  "observe." 

"Look  well  at  all  those  men,"  he  says.  "For 
the  most  part  ill-shaped,  ill-favoured,  sitting 
in  corners  and  smoking  cigarettes,  and  paying 
no  attention  whether  ladies  are  present  or  not. 
All  of  them  sceptical  and  pessimistic,  taking 
no  interest  in  any  but  exaggerated  views,  and 
in  most  deadly  earnest  about  all  their  convic- 
tions. That  is  the  type  of  men  I  most  abhor. 
If  intelligent,  they  grow  narrow-minded;  and, 
if  dull,  utterly  impossible  in  society.  You 


A  Canticle  of  Love  215 

• 
have  surely  noticed  that  the  greatest  fool,  so 

long  as  he  has  no  convictions  of  his  own,  may 
be  a  very  nice  gentlemanly  fellow." 

"And  what  about  the  women?" 

"They  are  less  unendurable.  They  don't 
talk  of  feminism,  they  don't  approve  of 
women's  emancipation,  and  (best  of  all)  they 
practise  it  very  effectively  indeed.  They  have 
a  great  deal  of  intuition,  but  for  all  that — and 
luckily  so — not  a  grain  of  conscious  experi- 


ence." 


"Whom  do  you  like  best  of  all?" 

"Miss  Janina  Dernowicz." 

"I  was  asking  about  artists;  I  am  not  one." 

"Ah,  I  see. — Artists?  The  prettiest  is  Miss 
Wartoslawska,  whom  I  have  known  for  a  good 
long  space  of  time.  But  just  now  she  is  far 
from  looking  as  well  as  usual. — Why  does  not 
Owinski  come  here  with  her  now?" 

"Owinski?"  I  hesitated  for  a  moment. 
Then:  "Well,  the  engagement  has  been 
broken  off  for  a  month,"  I  said. 

"Has  it?  Yes,  I  had  heard  something  about 
his  being  affianced  to  some  one,  but  fancied  it 
was  only  gossip.  .  .  .  Why,  he  seemed  to  be 
a  very  passive  sort  of  fellow,  and  bore  the 
yoke  meekly  enough." 


216  Kobiety 

"I  don't  know  who  is  responsible  for  what 
has  taken  place." 

"Oh,  you  have  but  to  look  at  her,  and  you 
can't  help  guessing.  .  .  .  Besides,  women  af 
ways  love  longer  and  more  deeply.  It  is 
through  love  that  they  attain  their  highest  de- 
gree of  culture ;  and  I  must  acknowledge  that, 
so  far  as  culture  goes,  they  have  outstripped 
men;  a  woman's  instinct  stands  higher  than 
the  wisdom  of  a  man." 

"Why,  Stephen,  from  where  have  you  got 
this  attitude  of  benevolent  optimism  towards 
woman?" 

"Of  tragical  pessimism,  I  should  say,"  he 
answered,  gayly,  but  then  was  lost  in  a  brown 
study. 

How  am  I  to  know?  Very  likely  this  also 
is  love.  And  a  good  thing,  too,  that  it  came 
to  me:  I  was  so  lonely  then  and  so  crushed 
with  longing! 

Now  and  then  I  enjoy  emotions  of  super- 
human delight,  of  ecstatic  bewilderment. 
And  then  again  there  flutter  about  me,  like 
black  moths,  certain  bitter  self-reproaches  for 
the  past,  and  maddening  apprehensions  as  to 
the  future. — Really,  it  is  too  ridiculous!  .  .  . 


A  Canticle  of  Love  217 

As  if  there  could  be  anything  worse  than  the 
sepulchral  monotony  of  my  life,  as  it  formerly 
was! 

And  yet  I  know — I  know! — that  this  is  not 
happiness:  that  this  romantic  adventure  of 
mine  will  have  no  morrow. 

Put  an  end  to  it?  I  cannot;  for  just  now 
the  man  is  as  necessary  to  me  as  the  air  I 
breathe.  But  some  time  or  other  I  shall  not 
love  him  any  more ;  and  then  I  shall  hold  it  as 
a  sacred  duty  to  pay  him  for  his  deeds  in  the 
past  by  my  future  conduct. 

And  she,  this  my  poor  love!  stands  here, 
gazing  with  eyes  full  of  frantic  terror  at  her 
end,  that  will  and  must  come  some  day! 

The  keynote  in  the  tragedy  of  woman's  life  ) 
is  the  fact  that  her  need  for  permanent  love, 
stands  in  contradiction  with  men's  instincts] 
and  with  their  interests.  Wiazewski  calls  this 
her  "higher  culture."  I  think  that  Schopen- 
hauer's justification  of  this  need  as  simply  a 
case  of  design  in  nature  is  far  more  convinc- 
ing. For  how  can  we  see  any  superiority  in 
an  instinct  that  we  find  equally  developed  in 
the  most  refined  inamorata  with  her  deep  emo- 
tions, and  in  the  average  middle-class  woman, 
all  given  up  to  passivity  and  routine? 


218  Kobiety 

After  Owinski  had  engaged  himself  to  a 
new  fiancee,  he  would  still,  in  the  beginning, 
come  at  times  and  call  upon  Gina. 

She  would  receive  him  with  a  smiling  face 
and  serene  looks,  and  endeavour  to  delude  him 
into  thinking  that  no  change  had  taken  place, 
and  that,  if  he  said  he  had  come  back  to  her, 
she  would  be  neither  surprised  nor  dismayed. 
.  .  .  She  would  talk  about  things  which  had 
interested  them  both;  about  her  paintings  and 
his  poems.  Together  they  read  books,  treat- 
ing of  the  Beautiful,  and  Life,  and  Love. 
Once  he  said  that  he  could  not  come  to  see 
her  the  next  day,  as  his  intended  was  to  arrive 
in  town ;  she  took  it  as  quietly  as  if  he  had  an- 
nounced his  mother's  or  his  sister's  arrival. 
Hut,  though  they  still  called  each  other  by 
their  Christian  names,  they  no  longer  kissed, 
not  even  at  parting. 

On  one  occasion,  she  asked  him  to  read  her 
one  of  his  poems ;  a  thing  he  was  always  will- 
ing to  do.  She  listened,  adapting  to  each 
changing  phrase  of  his  mind  as  she  had  used 
to  do,  and  following  every  flash  of  his  eye. — 
Now,  there  were  many  works  of  his  with 
which  she  was  not  acquainted :  formerly,  she 
had  been  the  first  to  read  anything  he  wrote 


A  Canticle  of  Love  219 

With  a  composed  and  tranquil  mien,  she  lis- 
tened even  to  the  love-song,  written  for  "the 
other."  Of  course,  they  were  the  output  of 
the  reaction  which  had  set  in :  the  magic  power 
of  innocence;  the  first  confession  of  love  from 
the  untouched  lips  of  one  ignorant  of  life;  the 
return  of  his  springtime,  of  his  youth,  of  his 
ideals.  .  .  .  Gina  had  great  self-control.  At 
the  end  of  one  such  poem,  she  handed  him  a 
love-song  of  the  old  times,  written  three  years 
before,  and  under  her  enchantment.  And  this 
too  he  read  aloud  as  he  had  read  the  others; 
and,  roused  to  enthusiasm  by  the  very  music 
of  the  lines,  showed  a  fire  too  evidently,  alas ! 
out  of  all  connection  with  the  object  which 
had  once  inspired  them. 

Like  a  tune  sunk  deep  in  memory  in  bygone 
days,  the  words  at  once  brought  all  the  past 
before  her:  it  rose  up,  plainly  visible  to  her 
mind's  eye.  The  vision  was  agonizing,  and 
the  dismay  of  it  made  her  raise  her  hands  to 
her  throat,  as  if  to  prevent  the  outburst  of  lam- 
entation that  now  tore  her  bosom,  as  if  she 
had  been  a  feeble  child,  long  and  unjustly  ill- 
treated.  For  she  knew  not  how  long,  she  wept 
like  one  distraught,  even  forgetting  that  he 
was  present,  and  only  aware  that  all  her  uni- 


220  Kobiety 

verse  had  given  way,  was  broken  to  pieces, 
crumbled  to  dust,  annihilated. 

Some  one  took  her  tenderly  in  his  arms, 
smoothed  her  hair,  kissed  those  moist,  red, 
tear-swollen  eyes  of  hers. 

She  felt  it,  and  this  act,  meant  to  comfort 
her,  seemed  to  her  harder  than  all  to  bear.  It 
was  a  kiss  of  pure  sympathy  for  suffering,  of 
mere  humanity,  a  last  farewell  kiss. 

The  anguish  she  felt  stifled  her;  she  could 
not  breathe, — till  her  pain  tore  its  way  out  of 
her  breast  in  a  tempest  of  weeping. 

Then,  as  in  a  nightmare,  she  heard  his  steps 
farther,  farther  away,  and  the  sound  of  the 
door  closing  upon  him.  She  knew  it  was  clos- 
ing upon  him  for  ever ;  she  knew  that  he  would 
not  return. 

And  then  there  came  a  time  when  she  crept 
to  his  feet,  like  some  poor  beast  that  its  master 
has  driven  away;  and  when,  no  longer  ad- 
mitted to  his  house,  she  loitered  about  for  him 
in  coffee-houses  and  in  the  street,  and  impor- 
tuned him  with  letters  incessantly.  Which- 
ever way  he  went,  he  was  doomed  to  behold 
that  face,  pale  as  a  spectre,  and  those  eyes,  so 
reproachful  and  so  full  of  entreaty! 

At  present  Owinski  salutes  her  distantly,  as 


A  Canticle  of  Love  221 

he  would  salute  some  slight  acquaintance;  but 
he  gives  no  answer  at  all  to  any  of  her  letters. 
Nor  does  he  any  longer  call  on  people  at 
whose  houses  there  is  any  chance  of  meeting 
her. 

When  I  look  at  Gina,  Martha  recurs  to  my 
mind  directly. 

Once  I  thought  I  had  eaten  of  the  fruit  of 
the  knowledge  that  there  is  neither  good  nor 
evil. 

And  nevertheless,  there  is  a  feeling  here,  in 
my  heart, — a  silly  persistent  feeling, — that  all 
that  has  happened  is  evil,  most  evil,  whereas 
it  might  just  as  well  have  been  good. — An  ad- 
ventitious otherness;  circumstances,  or  possi- 
bly dispositions,  make  all  the  difference.  .  .  . 

Yes,  but  I  constantly  see  those  eyes, — those 
pure  dark-blue  eyes,  which  had  not  merited 
for  her  such  pangs  as  she  has  suffered — and 
the  curve  of  that  mouth,  her  tiny  crimson 
mouth,  set  hard  with  pain,  and  always  ready 
to  burst  out  into  lamentations. 

She  sometimes  appears  to  me  as  a  fiend, 
whom  I  hate  for  her  obstinate  will  to  suffer, 
for  the  childish  and  insensate  whim  of  posing 
as  a  victim,  for  her  attitudes  and  her  love  to 


222  Kobiety 

gloat  over  herself.  She  comes  with  black 
wings  and  fluttering  white  hands;  with  a  beg- 
gar's impudence,  she  opens  out  her  mourning 
weeds  and  shows  me  her  bosom ;  beneath  her 
white  transparent  flesh,  I  can  see  her  purple- 
coloured  heart  And  she  points  to  it.  It  is 
misery  that  has  stained  it  so  deep  a  red,  filling 
it  with  red  fire ;  for  there  is  not  a  single  drop 
of  blood  in  it  any  more. 

And  she  strokes  that  heart  with  dainty 
relish,  and  smiles  on  me  malignantly. 

I — am  suffering  remorse! 

To  differentiate  between  good  and  evil  is 
far  from  wise.  This  is  why  my  ethical  prin- 
ciples are  of  such  primitive  simplicity.  All 
my  culture  exists  only  in  my  brain;  what  is 
emotional  in  me  remains  elemental  and  primi- 
tive, full  of  stupid  sentiment  and  of  scruples. 

And  therefore  it  is  that  I  am  so  unlike  other 
women,  whose  great  characteristic  is  that  their 
feelings  are  cultured. 

At  times,  when  I  see  him  afar,  standing  out 
from  amongst  the  crowd,  splendid  in  shape 
and  wonderful  in  beauty,  I  have  a  sense  of 
pride  that  he  is  mine — my  own!  Neither  a 
pet  cat  nor  a  dog,  neither  a  parrot  nor  a 


A  Canticle  of  Love  223 

canary:  a  man  of  the  world,  tall,  refined,  in 
life's  prime.  And  this  marvellous  creature 
belongs  to  me.  It  is  truly  hard  to  realize  this ; 
and  my  brain  whirls  with  pleasure  at  the  very 
thought  of  such  a  possession. 

When  sitting  by  my  side,  he  loses  that 
charm  of  his,  so  extremely  rare  and  of  no  less 
value, — the  charm  of  aloofness.  He  is  mine 
assuredly,  my  Witold.  I  know  him  well,  I 
know  him  by  heart.  Never  anything  but  by 
fits  and  starts;  incorrigible  in  his  defects, 
which  are  exceedingly  hard  to  bear;  obstinate 
and  childish ;  his  mind  consisting  of  two  or  at 
most  three  strata,  the  uppermost  of  which 
alone  contains  a  little  gold;  and  under  this 
you  may  root  and  dig  all  your  life  long,  and 
never  find  anything  but  sand,  and  sand,  and 
sand  for  ever! — But  why  do  I  always  want  to 
find  things  out,  and  go  deeper  and  deeper? 

When  he  kisses,  it  is  as  if  he  were  drinking 
the  blood  out  of  me.  I  turn  pale,  and  am 
weak  and  inert — ever  more  and  more  inert. 
In  his  arms  I  melt,  or  am  like  a  flower  droop- 
ing and  dying  in  the  sunbeams.  I  have  not 
the  strength  even  to  raise  my  eyelids;  it  is  as 
though  the  lashes  had  grown  together. 

But — and  this  is  an  odd  thing — I  never 


224  Kobiety 

yield  beyond  a  certain  point,  not  determined 
by  any  resolve  or  will  of  mine,  but  by  instinct 
and  instinct  alone.  A  moment  comes  when 
there  surges  up  within  me  as  it  were  a  cold 
and  ironically  smiling  energy;  with  one  ges- 
ture, I  repulse  that  creature  full  of  intemper- 
ate desire,  enchanting  though  he  is  in  his 
thoughtless  waywardness. 

He  always  goes  away  humbled,  vanquished, 
and  concealing  under  the  hearty  kindness  of  a 
farewell  kiss  the  gathering  hostility  of  an 
everlasting  antagonism. 

For  indeed  I  have  never  yet  been  his  "para- 
mour," in  any  sense  of  the  word  used  by  Mar- 
tha, when  she  questioned  me. 

Yet,  when  victorious,  I  at  times  wish  that 
I  had  been  defeated.  Truly,  I  cannot  under- 
stand myself.  But  I  do  not  so  much  as  at- 
tempt to  strive  against  this  something  within 
me  that  can  even  overcome  the  natural  bent 
of  my  temperament. 

It  is  conceivably  the  instinct  of  self-preser- 
vation, which  has  in  woman,  through  the  im- 
memorial working  of  heredity,  been  turned  in 
one  and  only  one  special  direction,  antagonis- 
tic to  unchastity.  The  ideal  woman  would 


A  Canticle  of  Love  225 

prefer  death  to  what  is  called  shame,  would 
she  not? 

And  I  also  possess  this  involuntary  and  auto- 
matic tendency,  instinctive  yet  purposeful; 
and  in  me  it  is  only  very  partially  blunted  by 
the  force  of  sober  reason.  But  this  explains 
well  why  my  bias  towards  emancipation  has 
its  source  and  finds  its  scope  chiefly  in  the  in- 
tellectual sphere. 

Last  evening  I  spent  some  time  in  Gina's 
studio.  I  was  glad  she  had  asked  me  to  come, 
for  last  night  there  was  something  or  other  on 
at  Witold's  club,  and  I  do  not  like  to  pass  my 
evenings  alone  now.  I  fear  my  own  thoughts, 
which  are  never  so  profound  as  in  solitude 
and  by  night.  This  activity  of  my  mind  some- 
times exceeds  my  limited  strength  to  bear  it. 
And  when  I  note  that  there  is  in  this  some 
resemblance  between  myself  and  Martha,  I 
again  hear  her  prediction  of  vengeance  ring- 
ing in  my  ears. — There  are  moments  when^ 
oh,  how  weak,  how  very  weak  I  feel ! 

Although  I  have  known  Gina  for  a  long 
time,  our  relations  are  always  on  a  strictly 
formal  footing.  When  we  meet  at  a  common 
friend's,  her  behaviour  is  almost  distant; 


226  Kobiety 

when  she  is  playing  the  part  of  hostess,  she  is 
not  only  courteous,  but  eager  to  show  cour- 
tesy; and  this  difference  in  her  bearing  is  very 
marked.  At  home,  she  is  seldom  gloomy,  will 
not  let  the  conversation  flag  for  an  instant, 
shows  me  her  paintings,  her  albums,  new 
periodicals  and  books;  makes  me  most  deli- 
cious black  coffee;  and  is  incessantly  moving 
about,  light-footed  and  supple,  with  lithe  and 
snake-like  motion,  dressed  in  a  long  dark  gown 
with  trailing  skirts,  glittering  with  her  gold 
ear-rings  and  her  metallic  belt,  amid  the 
easels  and  canvasses  and  stools  of  every  shape, 
and  all  the  admired  disorder  of  her  studio. 
And  she  tactfully  avoids  talking  about  her- 
self, as  she  does  not  wish  the  least  shade  of 
gloom  to  enter  our  conversation. 

"Are  you  quite  comfortable?"  she  inquires, 
kindly.  "Please  don't  stand  on  ceremony,  but 
sit  down  on  this  ottoman:  very  cosy,  believe 
me.  Let  me  put  this  skin  under  your  head — 
the  softest  fur;  as  soft  as  silk.  Now  isn't  it 
nice  to  rest  on?" 

She  fetches  me  a  tiny  stand,  and  places  a 
cup  of  coffee  upon  its  lower  shelf,  with  tea- 
cakes  and  a  tiny  glass,  so  that  I  have  every- 
thing close  at  hand. 


A  Canticle  of  Love  227 

"Now,  a  little  drop  of  liqueur;  that  will  do 
nicely,  won't  it?" 

In  her  studio  a  beautiful  soft  red  twilight 
prevails.  The  lamp,  well  shaded,  glows  in  a 
corner  upon  a  low  table.  The  easels  throw 
black  lines,  long-drawn,  big  and  grotesque, 
upon  the  upper  parts  of  the  walls.  A  glazed 
roof,  which  forms  the  greater  part  of  the  ceil- 
ing, looks  like  black  velvet,  framed  in  white 
with  pink  flowers  along  the  frames. 

Gina  is  to  some  extent  an  imitator  of  Cos- 
tenoble.  The  last  sketch  made  by  her  for  a 
very  large  painting  represents  a  man,  with 
head  thrown  back  in  a  pose  of  fatuous  tri- 
umph, while  at  his  feet  a  woman,  instinct  with 
subtle  delicacy,  suggests  by  her  attitude  the 
coils  of  a  writhing  serpent. 

The  sketch,  as  a  whole,  is  melodramatic, 
and  not  very  convincing.  I  prefer  Gina  as 
Gina  to  Gina  as  an  artist. 

I  love  to  look  at  her,  sitting  close  to  me,  re- 
clining in  that  big  easy-chair,  with  her  long 
white  hands  carelessly  dangling  from  the 
arms  of  her  chair,  forming  as  beautiful  and 
as  dainty  a  picture  as  any  artist  could  create. 

"Won't  you  come  with  me  to  a  concert  on 
Thursday  next?"  she  asks.  "Ileska  is  to  re- 


228  Kobiety 

cite  a  poem  by  my  ex-fiance.  He  will  certain- 
ly be  there — and  she  too.  I  have  not  yet  seen 
her,  and  should  like  to  do  so.  There  will  also 
be  piano  and  vocal  music.  Not  a  bad  pro- 
gramme." 

"Of  course  I  ;  hall  be  much  pleased,  but — 
have  you  considered  .  .  .  ?" 

"Oh,  don't  worry,  I  shall  manage  all  right. 
...  It  can  surely  make  no  great  impression 
upon  me." 

She  smiled. 

"I  should  not  have  forced  myself  on  you; 
but  since  Lola  Wildenhoff's  departure,  I  have 
no  one  but  you  to  do  me  this  service.  I  am 
now  so  very  easy  to  upset;  and  any  want  of 
tact  jars  upon  me  so!" 

"I  fancied  that  you  were  on  pretty  intimate 
terms  with  Idalia." 

"Not  at  present.  True,  she  is  still,  as  she 
always  was,  as  discreet  as  can  possibly  be.  But 
she  has  too  much  sentiment  and  sympathy — 
far  too  much ;  and  that  is  annoying  and  morti-». 
fying.  You,  so  tranquil,  so  quiet,  so  entirely 
unmoved,  act  on  my  nerves  as  a  sedative.  I 
can  talk  with  you  even  more  openly  than  with 
Lola." 

"Oh,  have  you  heard  from  her?" 


A  Canticle  of  Love  229 

"Yes;  I  received  one  letter.     She  has  left 
the  Riviera,  and  is  in  Paris  now,  where  she 
intends  to  winter  along  with  her  husband. 
Wildenhoff  has  won  a  good  deal  of  money, 
playing  at  Monte  Carlo;  and  both  of  them 
are  now  spending  it,  each  of  them  apart." 
"And  her  nerves,  how  are  they?" 
"In  perfect  condition.    She  has  left  all  her 
tears  in  the  sea  behind  her.  .  .  .  That  woman 
has  an  uncommonly  happy  disposition- 
Here  followed  a  short  but  mournful  pause, 
broken  by  the  entrance  of  Radlowski,  a  painter 
who  had  been  her  fellow-student  in  Munich. 
He  noticed  that  my  complexion  was  strik- 
ingly out  of  the  common,  and  begged  I  would 
sit  for  my  portrait. 

Witold  thinks  that,  of  all  the  women  he 
ever  knew,  I  am  the  most  intelligent.  Before 
he  made  my  acquaintance,  he  had  been  climb- 
ing up  a  regular  ladder  of  emotions,  of  which 
Martha  had  formed  the  topmost  rung.  I,  it 
appears,  form  a  sort  of  synthesis  of  all  his 
loves ;  I  am  at  the  same  time  the  most  beloved 
humanly  speaking,  and  as  a  woman  the  most 
desired  of  all.  He  would  not  have  me  other 


230  Kobiety 

than  I  am  in  any  way. — As  to  this  last,  I  wish 
I  could  say  the  same  of  him. 

And  yet  I  would   not  exactly  have   him 
changed — rather  transformed  and  become  an- 
other person.     It  seems  that  to  be  as  lack^\ 
brained  as  an  animal  is  not  sufficient:  one  must  / 
besides   have   some    primitive    instincts,    onej 
must  have  some  vigour.  .  .  .  What  I   need 
now,   perforce   and  irresistibly,   is  matchless 
strength — the  strength  of   a  hurricane,   of   a 
cyclone,  of  some  great  natural  force  let  loose. 

He  loves  to  talk  with  me  on  intellectual 
matters.  "No  one  can  understand  his  soul  so 
well  as  I." 

Silent  and  with  eyes  cast  down,  I  listen  for 
some  time  to  his  commonplaces,  uttered  in- 
deed in  elaborately  chosen  words,  and  in  a 
manner  not  commonplace.  And  I  ponder.  I 
gaze  on  him — on  that  mouth  so  perfectly 
shaped,  so  intensely  sweet,  just  a  little  faded, 
it  seems;  and  on  those  eyes  which,  beneath  the 
tawny  lashes  that  shade  them,  are  so  bright 
with  the  fever  and  the  melancholy  of  lassi- 
tude, so  full  of  the  irresistible  charm  which 
surrounds  all  that  is  coming  to  an  end,  though 
you  would  have  it  remain  as  beautiful  as  only 
youth's  dream  can  be.  And  it  is  then — when 


A  Canticle  of  Love  231 

he  has  not  the  slightest  inkling  of  what  I  feel 
—that  I  love  him  most  of  all. 

To-day  I  was  sorry  for  him — sorry  for  all 
those  desires  of  his,  doomed  to  burn  them- 
selves out,  never  any  more  to  be  kindled. 

Acting  on  an  impulse,  I  went  up  to  him, 
knelt  with  one  knee  upon  his,  put  my  hands 
round  his  head,  wonderfully  soft  and  velvet- 
like  to  feel,  and  then,  turning  his  face  up,  I 
gazed  into  those  enchanting,  nebulous  eyes, 
and  said  laughingly: 

"Oh!  in  Heaven's  name,  Witold,  why  must 
you  talk  about  everything?  You  know  well 
enough  that  this  is  not  what  you  were  made 
for,  don't  you?  Pray  remember  that  your  one 
strong  point  is  love." 

And  then,  for  the  first  time,  I  kissed  him 
upon  the  lips,  not  waiting  to  be  kissed  by  him. 

He  kissed  me  back  again,  but  the  kiss  was 
cool,  brotherly. 

"I  regret,"  he  observed,  "that  you  show  me 
so  little  of  your  beautiful  soul,  and  refuse  to 
acknowledge  mine  to  be  of  a  kindred  nature. 
Yet  I  understand  so  well  your  dreams  of  the 
Arctic  plains  that  you  possess,  of  your 
grottoes,  glimmering  green  in  the  Northern 
Lights ;  of  your  boundless  and  ever  peacefully 


232  Kobiety 

slumbering  ocean !  I  am  for  ever  very  near  to 
you.  .  .  ." 

"That  may  be;  but  I  am  always  very  far 
away  from  you,"  I  retorted,  with  an  attempt 
at  pleasantry.  Then  I  whispered  in  his  ear: 

"Love  my  snows:  for  there  are  volcanoes 
seething  beneath  them." 

At  the  words,  his  mouth  fastened  on  to  my 
neck,  and  he  bit  into  my  flesh  with  a  kiss  that 
gave  me  exquisite  pain  together  with  madden- 
ing delight. 

My  eyelids  closed,  my  lips  parted;  I  was 
about  to  faint.  And  I  felt  his  mouth  upon 
mine,  and  it  was  most  sweet,  with  the  savour 
of  withered  roses.  And  I  drank  of  the  crim- 
son wine  of  his  kisses,  and  it  was  strong  as 
death. 

And  the  crimson  wine  inebriated  me. 

But  there  came  an  evil  moment.  Was  it 
Death,  or  was  it  Life,  that  then  laid  its  cold 
hand  upon  my  heart,  and  looked  upon  me 
with  the  eyes  of  wisdom? 

The  revulsion  frees  me,  tearing  me  from 
his  close  embrace. — And  I  hated  him,  for  he 
did  not  understand,  and  was  unwilling  to 
leave  me.  Yet,  had  he  indeed  left  me  thus,  I 
should  have  resented  it  and  longed  for  him! 


A  Canticle  of  Love  233 

No,  never  I  shall  be  won  by  the  graces  of  a 
young  page  with  tawny  eye-lashes,  nor  by  the 
refined  softness  and  subtlety  of  any  art  what- 
ever. Strength  alone  can  win  me.  As  the  cat 
carries  off  its  little  ones  in  its  jaws,  so  let  Him 
carry  me  away;  and  whithersoever  he  may 
take  me,  thither  I  shall  go. 

When  we  entered  the  concert-hall,  it  was 
already  full.  Gina  was  looking  like  a  ghost. 

We  saw  a  good  many  people  we  knew,  and 
several  gentlemen  came  to  present  their  re- 
spects. They  were  rather  surprised  to  see  Gina 
there,  looked  at  her  not  without  some  tender 
interest,  and  seemed  to  scent  a  quarry. 

Czolhanski,  who  as  representative  of  his 
paper  was  sitting  in  the  first  row,  also  per- 
ceived us. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Witold?"  he  asked,  looking 
round  the  hall.  "I  have  been  waiting  for 
him,  but  he  does  not  come." 

"Unfortunately,"  I  answered  in  a  rather 
dry  tone,  "I  am  not  in  a  position  to  enlighten 
you.  However,  if  he  has  made  an  appoint- 
ment with  you,  he  may  be  expected  to  come." 

In  reality,  however,  I  was  quite  sure  that 
Witold  would  be  absent.  He  had  even  ad- 


234  Kobiety 

vised  me  not  to  go  to  the  concert,  for  he  par- 
ticularly wished  me  to  be  at  home  and  with 
him.  But  I  would  not  disappoint  Gina. 

"He  has  promised  to  be  here  for  sure,"  re- 
peated Czolhanski,  as  he  went  away. 

I  soon  perceived  Owinski  walking  up  the 
central  passage  by  the  side  of  a  lady  in  black 
attire,  and  no  longer  young.  He  was  holding 
some  tickets  and  endeavouring  (in  vain,  short- 
sighted as  he  was)  to  find  the  corresponding 
numbers  of  the  chairs.  A  pretty  girl  walked 
by  the  side  of  the  lady  in  black;  her  dark  eyes 
sparkled,  and  she  was  evidently  much  im- 
pressed by  the  important  nature  of  the  present 
performance.  She  spoke  in  a  low  tone  to  her 
fiance,  seeming  to  banter  him  on  his  embar- 
rassment, and  found  the  seats  herself.  They 
sat  down  at  no  great  distance  from  us,  on  the 
farther  side  of  the  central  passage. 

Owinski  left  the  ladies  by  themselves,  and 
was  returning  to  seek  for  something  or  other, 
when  he  happened  to  perceive  us,  as  he  passed 
by. 

He  changed  colour  slightly,  and  then  ap- 
proached to  present  his  respects,  kissing  Gina's 
hand  in  silence.  She,  too,  neither  spoke  a 
word  nor  lifted  her  eyes. 


A  Canticle  of  Love  235 

I  congratulated  him  on  having  got  so  first- 
rate  an  artiste  as  Ileska  to  recite  his  poem;  he 
answered  in  a  few  polite  words,  and  with- 
drew. 

There  was  a  pause. 

From  his  shapely  tapering  fingers,  a  tall 
young  musician  shook  some  heavy  drops  of 
mingled  sounds,  then  sprinkled  them  about, 
and  they  grew  ever  more  and  more  beautiful; 
now  daintily  rounded  off — musical  pearls,  as 
it  were — now  broken  and  hard  and  angular 
like  stones.  Now  thunder  was  heard;  the  hail 
pattered  and  rattled;  and  someone  set  up  a 
low  murmured  wailing,  and  Gina  hung  down 
her  head;  then  sunrise  was  triumphantly 
ushered  in  to  the  pealing  of  bells.  And  the 
slender  artist  in  black  evening  dress  went  on, 
as  before,  slowly,  drowsily,  letting  his  blos- 
som-like hands  fall  dropping  upon  the  piano 
keys,  soft  as  velvet  under  their  touch,  and  sud- 
denly, with  a  gesture  too  rapid  to  be  seen,  he 
shed  a  perfect  shower  of  pearls  round  us,  from 
the  inexhaustible  treasury  of  his  kingly  munifi- 
cence. 

Never  yet  have  I  at  any  concert  been  able 
to  fall  under  the  spell  of  music. 

I  listen,  and  I  look.    I  may  even  feel  daz- 


236  Kobiety 

zled.  But,  to  be  spell-bound!  That  requires 
seclusion,  concentration.  .  .  .  There  are  times 
when  I  prefer  a  barrel-organ  to  a  concert! 

I  coldly  admired  the  astonishing  technique 
of  the  young  virtuoso,  now  playing  in  public 
for  the  first  time,  and  the  extraordinary  charm 
he  possessed,  which  was  like  hypnotism  or 
magic.  Gina  sat  enthralled  and  following 
each  motion  of  his  hands.  She  no  longer  cast 
any  glances  in  the  direction  of  her  victorious 
rival ;  but  sombre  clouds  were  passing  over  her 
face,  and  she  knit  her  golden  brows  and 
frowned  heavily. 

I  glanced  towards  Owinski;  but  on  the  way 
my  glance  and  a  look  from  two  black  and 
most  observant  eyes  crossed  each  other.  So! 
She  was  scrutinizing  Gina! 

Silence  came;  and  then  a  clapping  of 
hands :  the  first-rate  actress,  who  was  thin  and 
unattractive,  had  appeared  upon  the  plat- 
form. She  bent  her  head  slightly  in  a  formal 
bow,  and  looked  round  the  hall  from  under 
gloomy  brows.  The  audience  waited,  ex- 
pectant and  agitated. 

A  clear,  distinct,  cold  voice  was  heard  vi- 
brating through  the  brilliantly  lighted  hall. 

Then,   as   if   preparing  for   a   surprise,   it 


A  Canticle  of  Love  237 

gradually  grew  mysterious,  soft,  and  low. 
You  thought  of  marble  terraces,  leading  to 
subterranean  vaults.  The  words  seemed  to 
take  a  sculptured  form  from  her  diction  and 
utterance;  their  tones  went  lower,  lower, 
lower  still,  became  the  muttering  of  a  hushed 
lamentation,  the  rumbling  sounds  of  a  scarce 
audible  curse,  and  the  profoundest  depths  of 
the  agony  of  death. 

At  intervals,  Ileska  would  pause  to  cast  her 
eyes  down,  and — in  an  ecstatic  concentration 
of  self-suggested  rapture — wait  while  her 
wonderful  voice,  reverberated  from  the  white 
and  lofty  walls,  would  echo  back  and  fill  her 
attentive  ears.  .  .  . 

And  then  she  would  again  open  her  great 
sombre  eyes,  and  continue  her  recitation,  in- 
spired as  it  were  by  the  sound  of  that  strange 
voice  of  hers. 

Indeed,  she  gave  so  much  of  her  own  spe- 
cial individuality  to  the  poem  she  was  so  ad- 
mirably reciting,  that  I  did  not  at  first  recog- 
nize it  as  the  work  of  Owinski.  Gina,  wrung 
with  anguish,  cast  up  her  eyes  and  threw  back 
her  head,  looking  steadfastly  into  the  glare  of 
the  electric  candelabra,  and  blinking  now  and 
then,  while  a  couple  of  tears  were  sparkling 


238  Kobiety 

in  each  outer  corner  of  her  eyes.  She  was  try- 
ing to  force  them  back  into  her  heart  by  that 
means.  Ah,  yes ;  I  know  that  trick,  I  do,  how 
well!  .  .  .  But  it  was  unsuccessful:  indeed,  it 
does  fail  from  time  to  time.  Once  two  trans- 
lucent pearls  trickled  slowly  on  to  her  tem- 
ples, and  were  lost  in  the  tresses  of  her  brown 
hair. 

After  Ileska,  Mile.  Iseult  Lermeaux,  a 
singer  who  would,  according  to  Czolhanski, 
be  the  great  attraction  of  the  concert,  came 
forward  on  the  platform.  Her  figure,  as  soon 
as  I  saw  it,  struck  me  as  like  some  person 
strangely  familiar.  Could  it — could  it  be? 
.  .  .  No,  the  thing  was  incredible.  I  drew 
my  brows  together,  that  I  might  concentrate 
my  attention  and  make  sure.  No,  no;  only  a 
fearful  unaccountable  pain  had  taken  posses- 
sion of  me  for  an  instant.  It  was  Gina's  own 
pain  that  I  felt,  reflected  within  myself. — An 
inexplicable  bewitchment,  that  perhaps  has  its 
reason  in  the  drawn-out,  lazy,  lascivious, 
dreamy  notes  of  that  song  of  a  Southern  land, 
which  she  is  singing:  yes,  it  may  be  that 

No.  No.  NO. — It  is  she,  none  but  she 
.  .  .  she  beyond  all  doubt.  Now  I  know;  and 
my  knowledge  is  hell  to  me.  Yes,  I  know  all. 


A  Canticle  of  Love  239 

Ah!  but  she  is  fair,  divinely  fair!  All  the 
potency  of  the  senses,  all  the  exquisite  refine- 
ments of  art  have  come  together  to  create  this 
irresistible  glamour  that  she  spreads  around 
her.  No,  no, — not  a  word!  Those  eyes,  so 
amazing  in  their  fairy-like  beauty,  and  the 
long  lashes  that  fringe  them — those  drowsy 
yet  unfathomable  eyes,  like  those  of  her  whom 
King  Cophetua  loved  so  well!  Yes,  and  it  is 
her  mouth,  too — that  wondrous,  wondrous 
mouth,  now  pale  and  wan  through  excess  of 
delights,  either  felt  or  known  in  dreams  only. 
—But,  Heavens!  I  can  see  this  mouth  pressed 
close  to  that  other  mouth,  sweet  beyond  all 
sweetness, — that  mouth  fragrant  with  its  ter- 
rible death-bringing  scent,  its  scent  as  of 
withered  roses!  .  .  . 

This — this  is  death! 

Not  so.  Oh,  no,  it  is  not  death:  this  is  Life! 
Understand  the  truth. — It  is  life;  behold  it 
now:  life  in  very  deed. 

You  see  now? — All  is  clear.  It  was  for  that 
reason  that  Czolhanski  was  awaiting  him 
here.  It  was  for  that  reason  that  he  wished 
you  not  to  come,  and  that,  because  you  came, 
he  stayed  away. 

Is — is  not  this  yet  Death? 


240  Kobiety 

No.  It  is  Life:  Life  that,  out  of  the  ac- 
cents of  that  voice,  supremely  melodious, 
drowsy,  sleepy,  yet  replete  with  fire  from  an 
unfathomable  abyss,  out  of  the  lazy,  lascivious 
snaky  curves  of  those  limbs  of  hers;  out  of 
those  glossy  shoulders,  so  shapely,  so  slenderly 
fashioned,  and  of  those  outstretched  naked 
arms,  in  hue  like  pale  dead  gold,  has  come 
forth  towards  you  in  all  its  hostile  might! 

Gina,  lost  in  dreary  amazement,  was  star- 
ing at  me. 

"What  ails  you?  .  .  .  Had  we  not  better 
get  away  from  here?" 

We  were  both  of  us  presently  standing, 
frantic  with  pain,  in  the  street  which,  lit  up 
by  the  flaring  windows  of  the  great  hall,  was 
as  bright  as  day. 

"Let  us  go  away — away! — Home?  On  no 
account. — Get  drunk  somewhere — lose  my 
senses — shed  some  one's  blood.  .  .  ." 

I  was  raving  like  one  in  a  delirium. 

"I  beg  you,  Gina,  come,  come  along — I 
can't  bear  any  more!"  I  stammered. 

She  hesitated.  "Unescorted  and  alone — to 
a  night-restaurant?" 

"What  does  it  matter?" 


A  Canticle  of  Love  241 

"Better  have  made  an  appointment — some- 
where— with  Mr.  Imszanski.  .  .  ." 

Then  I  burst  into  laughter.  "Unescorted? 
Ha,  ha,  ha!"  I  roared,  as  we  got  into  a  four- 
wheeler.  "Forgive  me,  but  even  so, — I  fancy 
neither  of  us  has  much  to  lose! 

"To  Lipka's?  I  will  not.  No,  I  entreat 
you.  No  memories  of  things  gone  by — A  ho- 
tel, any  hotel! — or  a  first-rate  night-restaurant. 
-Fast!  As  fast  as  horses  can  go!  Faster, 
faster!" 

Off  they  went,  the  great  black  half-starved 
horses.  A  few  street-lamps  flashed  by  in  the 
dark  night.  A  few  jolts  from  the  rubber- 
tired  wheels  made  us  sway  about:  and  again 
it  is  all  bright  around.  Oh!  how  I  am  tor- 
tured! 

A  cold  blast  blows,  muddy  pools  splash,  a 
drizzling  rain  sets  in.  ...  Oh,  yes,  yes;  all 
this  is  very  real :  fact,  not  fiction. 

Now  a  brilliantly  lit  doorway  is  before  us; 
now  a  staircase,  adorned  with  flowers  and  mir- 
rors. .  .  . 

Gina  was  eyeing  me  in  astonishment,  but 
she  said  not  one  word.  She  no  doubt  could 
not  guess  what  had  come  over  me ;  but,  in  her 
state  of  mind,  the  strangest  occurrence  must 


242  Kobiety 

have  seemed  quite  commonplace.  And  then, 
she  no  longer  felt  so  much  alone  in  her  dis- 
tress; beside  my  madness  her  state  of  tearful 
dejection  seemed  but  a  small  matter. 

The  great  saloon  was  filled  as  usual  with 
specimens  of  the  jeunesse  doree,  with  finan- 
ciers, and  with  courtesans.  We  attracted  a 
good  deal  of  attention.  I  had  assumed  the  gay 
mien  of  a  girl  desperately  bent  on  fun,  and 
looked  about  on  all  sides,  with  lively  glances 
at  everybody. — Several  men  spoke  to  me. 

In  the  passage  on  to  which  the  doors  of  the 
private  supper-rooms  opened,  we  were  met  by 
a  young  but  full-grown  satyr,  who  slipped  his 
arm  under  mine,  and  looked  into  my  face. 
And  yet  I  did  not  cease  to  laugh.  It  was  re- 
venge I  craved — debauch — oblivion  of  all! 

Gina's  terrified  looks  were  expostulating 
with  me. 

"We  have  nothing  to  lose,"  I  returned  to 
their  speechless  appeal.  And  thereupon  she 
too  fell  a-laughing  strangely. 

The  creature  whose  arm  was  in  mine  kept 
chattering  incessantly  .  .  .  about  I  know  not 
what.  A  waiter  respectfully  opened  the  door 
of  a  small  private  room,  and  we  all  three  went 
in. 


A  Canticle  of  Love  243 

"I  presume,  ladies,  you  have  been  at  the 
play?"  our  gentleman  inquired,  having  re- 
marked the  dresses  we  wore. 

"Ha,  hal"  I  answered.  "Right  you  are. 
Been  at  one  play,  and  come  to  another." 
There  was  not  less  coarse  ribaldry  in  my  tones 
than  in  my  words. 

"That's  first-rate. — The  bill  of  fare,  waiter! 
-What  will  you  take?" 

"To  eat,  nothing.  We  want  to  drink,  to 
drink,  to  drink!" 

"Very  good!"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of 
pleased  surprise.  "Coffee  and  liqueur — co- 
gnac— champagne  ?" 

"All  right:  anything  and  everything,  my 
dear  man!" 

Several  bottles  were  standing  on  the  table. 
Our  companion,  having  leisurely  prepared  a 
mayonnaise,  set  to  munching  the  lobster  with 
great  relish,  showing  his  white  teeth  in  a  grin. 
— Gina  drank,  but  was  mute. — I  babbled  in- 
cessantly, endeavouring  to  pass  for  a  cocotte. 
We  were  a  puzzle  to  the  young  man  neverthe- 
less, and  his  behaviour  towards  us  was  lacking 
in  assurance. 

"Do  you  know,  Madame,"  he  at  last  blurted 
out,  addressing  me,  "it  will  be  better  fun  if 


244  Kobiety 

we  make  a  quartette.  ...  I  have  an  acquaint- 
ance in  the  saloon  here:  a  capital  fellow  he 


is." 


Then,     turning    to     Gina:       "You     also, 
Madame,"  he  said,  "should  have  a  little  diver- 


sion." 


I  protested  very  strongly. 

"Not  the  least  need  for  him;  let  him  stay 
where  he  is.  You  are  what  we  want." 

I  held  him  back,  putting  my  hands  upon 
his  shoulders,  and  my  face  close  to  the  animal 
face  of  that  unknown  man. 

He  smiled,  much  flattered :  his  white  teeth 
gleamed. 

"We  shall  not  keep  you  long,  if  you  wish  to 
leave  us.  But  for  the  present,  you  have  to 
stay  with  us." 

Some  one — who  could  it  be? — filled  my 
liqueur-glass  with  cognac  again  and  again. 
Presently,  a  crimson  blood-red  smoke  began 
to  float  from  corner  to  corner  of  the  small 
cabinet,  papered  with  red  and  gold,  and  filled 
with  the  sound  of  his  loud  voice  and  the  reek 
of  tobacco.  All  round  me,  everything  was 
afire  and  aflame. 

He  was  drawing  near;  in  every  limb  of 
mine  I  felt  his  approach.  His  jaws,  chewing 


A  Canticle  of  Love  245 

still,  though  his  supper  was  over;  his  tiny 
eyes,  to  which  expectancy  gave  a  phosphores- 
cent glow;  and  the  hot  fulsome  breath  from 
his  gaping  chops,  embellished  with  splendid- 
ly shining  fangs  and  incisors;  and  that  blond 
upstanding  moustache  of  his : — I  had  all  these 
close  to  my  face.  He  was  unsteadily  leaning 
over,  tilting  his  chair  towards  the  sofa,  touch- 
ing and  fingering  the  gauze  trimming  of  my 
bodice,  and  seeking  my  lips  with  his. 

My  brain,  intensely  excited,  showed  me 
things  as  they  were.  But  I  half  closed  my 
eyes,  and  looked  at  him  through  the  lids  as 
though  about  to  faint. 

All  would  not  do.  ...  My  mind  was  so- 
ber: its  powers  came  into  full  play. 

At  that  instant  I  drew  back,  and — with  all 
the  force  of  my  rage,  hate,  despair,  and  re- 
venge— revenge  for  everything  and  for  us  all 
—I  dealt  him  a  furious  blow  with  my  clenched 
fist,  right  between  those  phosphorescent  green- 
ish lustful  eyes! 

He  reeled,  and  fell  along  with  his  chair  on 
to  the  floor.  Gina  was  at  the  door  in  a  flash. 

I  flung  down  upon  the  table  all  the  money 
I  had  by  me,  and,  slamming  the  door  behind 
us,  rushed  out  in  Gina's  company. 


246  Kobiety 

No  one  was  in  the  passage.  I  walked  out 
of  the  saloon,  my  face  by  this  time  wearing 
an  unconcerned  expression.  In  the  cloak- 
room we  put  on  the  hooded  mantles  we  had 
taken  to  the  concert.  I  went  home,  shorn  of 
all  my  strength,  and  in  a  state  of  complete 
collapse. 

An  astonishing  woman,  that  Gina!  She 
never  asked  me  for  any  sort  of  explanation. 

"This  explosion  scene  has  done  me  good," 
was  her  indifferent  and  only  comment. 

From  this  day,  I  am  her  friend. 

I  have  told  Gina  all  about  the  whole  busi- 
ness, from  beginning  to  end.  She  said  I  was 
terribly  na'ive.  "Things  could  not  possibly 
have  turned  out  otherwise."  She  advised  me 
to  forgive  Witold.  It  was  only  if  he  had  loved 
another  that  I  could  have  had  any  cause  for 
complaint.  But  such  a  passing  connection  as 
that!  .  .  .  Besides,  I  had  no  rights  over  him; 
and  moreover,  he  was  a  man!  .  .  .  Owinski, 
too,  had  been  several  times  unfaithful  to  her; 
and  yet,  though  their  relations  had  been  very 
different  from  ours,  she  had  always  forgiven 
him:  though  indeed  not  without  difficulty. 
...  It  was  only  now  that  the  inwardness  of 


A  Canticle  of  Love  247 

suffering  had  come  home  to  her.  .  .  .  Had  he 
been  willing,  she  would  have  agreed  to  his 
having  a  dozen  others  besides  his  wife! 

"Never  would  /  agree  to  such  a  thing  as 
that,"  I  replied.  "If  Witold  gave  me  up  for 
the  love  of  some  other  woman,  then  I  should 
at  least  be  sure  that  my  misery  was  of  some 
service  to  others,  and  that  there  was  on  both 
sides  equality  of  rights,  since  I  too  might  have 
just  as  well  fallen  in  love  with  another.  .  .  . 
But  if  he  is  false  to  me  for  a  mere  plaything 
and  to  amuse  himself  with  what  does  not  mean 
any  more  to  him  than  a  good  cigar,  then  I  am 
absolutely  unable  to  act,  and  quite  defenceless 
against  him.  I  shall  never,  never  be  able  to 
do  the  same.  And,  between  the  measure  of 
his  guilt  and  of  my  retaliation  for  it,  there  is 
such  huge  disproportion  as  makes  me  ridicu- 
lous in  my  own  eyes.  .  .  .  Why,  when  Ros- 
lawski  forsook  me,  I  was  also  most  miser- 
able: but  in  his  behaviour  at  least  there  never 
was  anything  one  whit  so  mean,  so  dirty,  as 
this." 

"I  have  not  the  slightest  wish,"  returned 
Gina,  "to  impose  my  philosophy  of  life  upon 
you." 


248  Kobiety 

He  has  excused  himself;  has  assured  me, 
even  sworn  that  I  am  in  error.  I  have  refused 
to  believe  him.  Women  are  hugely  credulous, 
credulous  in  the  extreme. 

I  have  not  seen  him  this  whole  week.  He 
came  here  twice,  but  was  denied  entrance,  as 
I  ordered.  I  don't  care  for  the  forgiving  sys- 
tem. I  don't  care  to  become  like  Martha.  .  .  . 

However,  if  I  act  thus,  it  is  on  principle 
only;  in  reality,  I  am  tortured  by  his  absence. 
My  feelings  incline  me  to  believe  that  he  says 
true.  .  .  .  Surely  he  cannot  possibly  be  thus 
false  to  me. 

I  fear  greatly  lest,  if  he  should  come 
again  .  .  . 

No,  no. — I  am  going  to  call  on  Wiazewski, 
who  has  of  late  been  quite  neglectful. 

I  started  by  complaining  of  things  in  gen- 
eral, and  with  but  little  of  personal  feeling. 
He  has  hitherto  known  nothing  about  my  re- 
lations with  Witold.  And  I  am  also  ashamed 
of  this  love,  in  which  I  have  been  playing  so 
ludicrous  a  part. 

"...  And  to  think  of  the  years,  the  golden 
years  of  youth,  gliding,  gliding,  gliding  by, 


A  Canticle  of  Love  249 

beautiful,  but  empty  as  some  marble  bath  of 
ancient  days!  .  .  ." 

"But  I  told  you  once  that  men  of  modern 
times  do  not  care  to  bathe  in  those  waters. 
They  are  too  clear,  too  cold;  they  run  with 
too  swift  a  stream,  and  with  too  many,  oh! 
far  too  many  an  eddy  and  deep  hollow.  Janka, 
they  fail  to  attract." 

"Let  me  say,  Stephen,  that  I  am  unhappy, 
and  therefore  come  to  you.  You,  as  a  friend, 
have  some  responsibilities  toward  me;  you 
can't  get  out  of  them.  All  that  I  am  is  going 
to  pieces  at  this  time;  and  I  do  not  know 
whether  life  or  death  will  come  of  the  change 
which  is  taking  place." 

I  had  never  yet  yearned  for  Witold  as  at 
that  moment,  though  I  knew  perfectly  well 
that  no  one  had  done  me  the  wrong  which  he 
had  done. 

"What  about  Helen?"  I  asked,  with  friend- 
ly interest. 

"There  again!  I  have  been  disappointed  in 
her." 

"What,  she!  Unfaithful  to  you?  Can  that 
be?" 

"Ah,  no!  I,  rather  than  she,  have  been  at 
fault  in  that  respect." 


250  Kobiety 

"Well  then?" 

"Well,  what  shall  I  say?  I  have  broken 
with  her." 

Forsaken!  She  too  had  then  come  to  swell 
the  list,  after  Martha,  Gina,  and  myself! 

"That's  horrible.  She  was  so  very  much 
in  love  with  you." 

"Whereas  I,  alas!  have  a  preference  for 
women  who  care  for  nothing  very  much." 

<rYet  I  know  you  have  been  moody  of  late." 

"And  you  are  right:  yes,  I  have." 

"Well,  what  was  it  that  troubled  your 
Olympian  calm?  The  parting  scene — tears — 
upbraiding?" 

"Pas  le  mains  du  monte.  She  went  away 
without  uttering  a  word." 

"Then  what  was  it?" 

"That  I  have  simply  lost  my  belief  in  the 
last  dogma  left  to  me  from  childhood.  Every- 
body complains  that  women  are  too  devoid  of 
heart  and  brains  and  soul;  and  I  now  find  that 
it  is  in  vain  I  have  sought  for  a  woman  bereft 
of  those  superfluous  appendages." 

"But  Helen,  as  I  understood,  answered  your 
ideal  of  a  woman  to  perfection?" 

"I  fondly  thought  she  did.  Oh,  you  cannot 
imagine  what  I  would  give  to  meet  a  woman 


A  Canticle  of  Love  251 

really  soulless,  primitive:  you  know, — a  crea- 
ture absolutely  and  bewilderingly  unenlight- 
ened." 

"Really,"!  quite  dislike  you  to-day,  Stephen. 
You  are  positively  in  bad  form!" 

"Please  forgive  me." 

"What  special  mark  of  her  culture  has 
Helen  given  you?" 

"Culture?  That  would  have  been  by  far 
too  bad.  Besides,  it  was  something  perhaps 
even  worse :  a  mark  of  character,  firm  convic- 


tion." 


"Up  to  now,"  he  continued,  "I  had  been 
quite  satisfied  with  the  girl;  so,  a  few  days 
ago,  I  proposed  that  she  should  give  up  her 
employment  and  come  to  live  with  me. 
Would  you  believe  it?  I  met  with  a  point- 
blank  refusal.  You  fancy,  perhaps,  it  was 
marriage  she  wanted,  or  something  of  that 
kind;  and,  word  of  honour!  If  she  had,  I 
would  have  taken  her  willingly.  .  .  .  Not  at 
all.  She  told  me  sententiously  that  'although 
she  recognized  free  love,  she  never  would  be 
a  kept  woman!'  What  do  you  think  of  that, 
eh?  Ha,  ha!  It's  something  astounding, 
isn't  it?" 

But  I  could  not  laugh.    I  sat  silent,  thinking 


252  Kobiety 

of  many  things,  far  more  pained  than  amused. 

Stephen  continued:  "A  girl  with  such 
splendidly  expressionless  eyes  of  a  bright 
azure,  like  a  piece  of  water!  No  shadow  of 
any  yearning  for  the  Beyond,  no  shadow  of 
anything  like  intellect  or  brightness  of 
thought!  ...  By  day  they  reflected  the  sun, 
her  lamp  in  the  evening,  and  my  own  eyes  at 
night.  They  had  the  beautiful  dead  gleam  of 
pearls.  She  might  have  been  less  pretty:  with 
such  eyes,  she  was  pretty  enough  for  me.  And 
then,  that  slow,  sleepy,  brainless  voluptuous- 
ness in  her  glance!  And  her  white  flashing 
teeth,  too!  I  tell  you,  there  is  not  a  single 
spot  or  flaw  in  any  one  of  them;  her  molars 
are  like  the  molars  of  a  ruminant,  large  and 
flat.  She  did,  it  is  true,  write  me  letters  with- 
out necessity;  but,  through  my  influence  and 
under  my  direction,  she  had  come  even  to  for- 
get her  alphabet.  She  truly  gave  me  the  im- 
pression (false  as  I  know  now)  that  she  never 
thought  at  all. 

"And  that  girl  'recognizes  free  love' !  Such 
a  surprise  may  well  make  one  throw  all  the 
beliefs  of  one's  life  on  the  dustheap!" 

All  this  talk  of  his  seemed  to  me  decidedly 
shallow  and  foolish.  Why  on  earth  was  he 


A  Canticle  of  Love  253 

trying,  by  means  of  that  far-fetched  theory  of 
his,  to  justify  the  fact  that  the  woman  simply 
bored  him? 

He  has  now  made  up  his  mind  to  seek  for 
his  future  Dulcineas  amongst  kitchen-maids. 

"Dressmakers  have  decidedly  too  much 
culture  for  my  taste,"  he  said. 

"I  sincerely  hope  you  may  be  successful," 
was  my  parting  wish. 

Witold,  contrary  to  my  expectations,  has 
not  yet  called  again.  There  is  something  go- 
ing on  that  is  beyond  me,  incomprehensible. 

I  am  assailed  by  innumerable  thoughts 
which  make  me  turn  pale  with  fear. 

He,  too,  is  possibly  "seeking  oblivion,"  as 
I  was;  but  he  is  scarce  likely  to  stop  in  time, 
like  me.  Moreover,  his  vengeance  will  not, 
like  mine,  be  a  more  horrible  pain  than  the 
injury  itself. 

He  has  a  supremely  great  advantage  over 
me,  and  the  conditions  of  the  struggle  are  the 
most  unequal  possible. 

Will  he  delay  coming  for  long?  Is  it  con- 
ceivable that  he  has  given  me  up  for  ever? 

I  was  in  tears  all  this  evening. 

Idalia  felt  it  her  duty  to  try  and  comfort 


254  Kobiety 

me.  A  kind,  lovable  girl  she  is.  And  she 
knows  how  to  deal  skilfully  with  "semi-tones" 
of  every  description.  Her  eyes  are  gentle,  her 
face  a  little  faded  and  careworn ;  there  is  some- 
thing maternal  about  her. 

"We  take  everything  so  very  seriously,  so 
very  much  au  tragique,"  she  says.  "And  that, 
you  see,  puts  us  more  in  their  power.  We 
should  analyse  things  less,  and  learn  rather  to 
glide  over  them.  Analysis  is  a  two-edged^ 
Qweapon :  it  easily  turns  and  wounds  you.  Do 
endeavour  to  pass  along  with  a  cursory  look 
about  you,  even  with  half-closed  eyes ;  things 
will  seem  different  at  once.  Don't  cry  any 
more:  and  if  he  should  come,  the  servant  is 
to  let  him  in,  is  she  not?" 

"On  no  account;  on  no  account;"  I  cried,  in 
a  fury. 

"But  why?"  she  murmured,  gently  stroking 
my  hair.  "Why?  To  let  him  in — that  does  not 
bind  you  in  any  way:  you  are  free  to  act  as 
you  like.  And  why  not  hear  what  he  has  to 
say?" 

"Because  I  have  heard  him  already." 

"And  you  would  not  believe  him?  You 
were  not  right  in  that.  It  is  so  easy  to  believe! 
.  .  .  And  whether  the  thing  is  true  or  not, 


A  Canticle  of  Love  255 

what  does  it  matter  to  you?  What  is  true  in 
some  part  of  time  may  be  false  in  some  part 
of  space;  and  vice  versa.  A  fact  is  true,  but 
only  for  the  day.  When  he  is  beside  you,  and 
assures  you  of  his  love,  you  will  have  the 
greatest  of  all  truths :  the  indubitable  truth  in 
the  present.  What  took  place  before?  .  .  . 
What  is  to  come  later?  .  .  .  Never  mind:  it 
is  all  the  same!" 

And  I  think  she  is  in  the  right. 

Every  now  and  then  Czolhanski  comes  and 
calls  upon  me.  He  came  yesterday,  too.  This, 
I  think,  is  rather  too  much.  God!  how  I  de- 
test that  man!  .  .  .  He  enters,  sits  down,  stays 
for  three  mortal  hours,  pays  me  a  few  compli- 
ments, lets  out  a  few  commonplaces  about  the 
lamentable  position  of  a  journalist:  a  man  un- 
tidy, unshaven,  rather  dirty  in  his  ways,  and 
very  pretentious:  his  finger-nails  are  in 
mourning  and  his  hands  always  moist.  No 
use  to  take  up  a  newspaper,  even  to  be  more 
uncivil  to  him  still:  he  will  not  take  the  hint 
and  go.  Once  he  wrote  a  sonnet  to  me! 
Journalism  has  evidently  been  the  death  of  his 
poetical  talent.  But,  Lord!  what  does  it  all 
matter  after  all?  He  will  kiss  my  hands, 


256  Kobiety 

though  I  always  beg  him  not  to,  he  disgusts 
me  so.  If  I  were  in  his  place,  I  should  go 
and  hang  myself!  And  he — he  is  quite  un- 
aware of  my  feelings,  and  very  much  self- 
satisfied. 

Yesterday  Radlowski  came  as  well,  and  for 
the  first  time,  under  the  pretext  of  a  message 
from  Gina.  His  company  would  be  most 
pleasant,  for  he  is  so  very  extremely  young ; 
and  his  eyes  sparkle  like  a  diamond  in  the 
sun,  with  a  sort  of  delectation  so  lively  that 
it  seems  unnatural;  painfully  so.  He  has 
again  asked  me  to  sit  for  my  portrait. 

I  have  promised:  but  I  cannot — I  cannot 
as  yet. 

What  is  the  reason  of  Idalia's  playing  so 
very  poorly  to-day?  She  writhes  and  twists 
herself  to  and  fro  at  the  piano,  with  more  than 
sensual  affectation;  she  suddenly  and  convul- 
sively coils  and  uncoils  herself  like  a  snake, 
during  the  more  brilliant  passages:  and  she 
goes  on  playing  interminably,  from  dusk  till 
far,  far  into  the  deep,  dark,  never-ending 
night 

And  why  is  she  doing  so,  this  day  of  all 


A  Canticle  of  Love  257 

others,  when  all  my  strength  to  bear  it  has 
left  me? 

The  longing,  the  pain  I  feel,  is  stifling,  is 
strangling  me:  it  bites  at  my  throat,  and  I 
shudder  to  feel  it  cling  round  my  feet  like  ivy, 
together  with  the  thought  of  my  blighted  joys. 

These  I  see  lying  on  heaps  of  tropical  flow- 
ers— lying  in  long  rows,  naked,  asleep,  and 
beautiful  as  dreams  of  what  is  past  forever. 
.  .  .  Over  them  there  blows  a  gentle  breeze, 
scattering  the  flower-petals  upon  their  fairy- 
like  forms;  but  it  does  not  wake  them  from 
slumber.  Only,  from  time  to  time,  do  their 
long  black  eye-lashes  open  and  shut,  slowly 
and  rhythmically,  as  the  silken  wings  of  a 
fluttering  butterfly.  They  are  dreaming  of 
their  delights. 

Say,  O  say!  why  does  all  this  give  me  such 
infinite  pain? 

And  then  there  always  come  to  me  haunt- 
ing visions,  which  are  my  childhood  I  A  dark 
outline  of  forest-trees;  a  perspective  fading 
into  infinite,  infinite  distance,  and  the  clear 
waters  wherein  life  lay  hidden  once  upon  a 
time.  The  vision  stands,  I  know  not  how,  for 
the  times  of  my  childhood.  Music  always 


258  Kobiety 

renders  concrete  even  the  most  abstract  of 
things. 

Something  is  tearing  my  soul ;  it  is  the  im- 
possibility of  any  delusion  about  .  .  . 

Ah,  do  not,  do  not  bite  thus  at  my  throat! 
.  .  .  I  cannot  weep!  .  .  .  And  do  not  make 
the  sharp-edged  music  of  the  violin  soft  by  the 
dark  velvet  touch  of  your  smooth  hand!  .  .  . 
And  do  not,  do  not  press  my  bosom  so;  my 
heart  will  burst!  .  .  .  And  do  not  hug  my 
body  with  that  tender  embrace,  that  Lesbian 
caress!  .  .  .  Nor  twine  like  ivy  round  my 
feet,  uttering  that  awful  moan  for  blighted 
joys!  .  .  . 

Witold,  O  Witold !  behold,  I  return  to  you ! 
O  sleep,  O  life!  Yes,  I  return.  .  .  . 

I  have  written  the  following  short  note  to 
Witold  to-day: 

"If  you  wish,  you  may  come.    J.  D." 

It  breathed  the  spite — the  unavailing  and 
very  plebeian  spite — of  my  humiliation.  I 
fully  recognized  this:  and  yet  I  chose  to  send 
the  note,  thus  styled. 

I  expected  that  he  wo-uld  come  like  a  con- 
queror, triumphant  and  self-assured;  and 


A  Canticle  of  Love  259 

thinking  so,  I  for  the  time  being  ceased  to  love 
him  at  all. 

As  it  happened,  he  has  belied  my  expecta- 
tions. 

On  my  return  from  the  office,  I  found  him 
already  here.  He  was  quite  childishly  de- 
lighted, and  for  a  long  while  I  could  not  free 
myself  from  his  rapturous  embrace. 

"Janka,  Janka!  how  cruel,  how  cruel  you 
have  been!"  he  cried  out  in  broken  words 
amongst  his  kisses.  "You  are  a  monster  of 
barbarity!  And  of  stubbornness  too!  For  you 
know  so  well  how  much  I  love  you !  .  .  .  You 
should  have  had  trust  in  me,  as  I  have  trust  in 
you.  .  .  .  Have  I  ever  given  you  any  cause 
for  mistrust?  I  hide  nothing  from  you,  noth- 
ing whatsoever!  .  .  .  Oh,  my  dearest,  my 
only  one,  my  darling!  ...  I  know  that  you 
will  be  mine  one  day — mine!  It  must  be  so. 
,  .  .  Could  I  ever  have  exposed  myself  to  the. 
danger  of  losing  your  love?  Think  of  that. 
Think  how  different  you  are  from  all  other 
women.  ...  I  know  you  could  never  have 
forgiven  me,  if  .  .  ." 

So  handsome,  so  kindly,  so  affectionate!  I 
knew  how  intensely  I  loved  him.  And  then, 
in  the  secret  depths  of  my  heart  of  hearts,  I 


260  Kobiety 

was  aware  that  I  could  forgive  him  anything 
in  the  world. 

Yet  I  said:  "My  love  for  you  would  then 
instantly  turn  to  hate,  as  it  did  for  the  last  few 
days.  .  .  ." 

He  feigned  to  be  horribly  frightened.  We 
were  both  of  us  in  ecstasies  of  joy. 

Long,  long,  did  we  speak  together  of  our 
love.  We  should  love  each  other  forever  and 
forever:  and  with  what  intensity!  .  .  .  Only 
we  were  to  have  more  of  mutual  trust,  and 
to  be  more  tolerant  one  for  the  other:  there 
would  be  no  more  of  those  former  bickerings 
which  had  been  so  painful  to  both  of  us. 

Closer  and  closer  we  drew.  Hallucinated 
with  rapture,  I  was  almost  out  of  my  mind. 
The  air  around  me  grew  rosy,  and  the  walls 
had  a  purple  glow,  and  the  lamp  was  burn- 
ing— how  can  I  express  it?  Black,  quite 
black!  Bending  down  his  head,  he  fixed  his 
eyes  on  me. 

"Janka!"  he  said,  with  low  but  clear-cut 
articulation;  "Janka!"  His  voice  was 
changed;  it  was  strangled  and  seething  with 
emotion.  There  was  in  it  just  a  touch  of  sur- 
prise— surprise  at  the  victory  which  he  now 
foresaw. 


A  Canticle  of  Love  261 

I  was  startled,  and  a  shiver  ran  through  me. 
A  noise  as  of  a  whirlwind  murmured  confus- 
edly in  my  ears;  my  throat  was  filled  with  a 
hot  suffocating  fragrance,  and  I  felt  as  if  the 
air  I  breathed  had  grown  solid  and  came  in 
morsels. 

"Janka,  Janka,"  he  whispered  again,  as  if 
struggling  with  his  deep  perturbation;  for  he 
was  greatly  moved. 

In  a  sort  of  hypnotic  trance,  I  stared  hard 
into  his  dimly  glistening  eyes.  I  kissed  his 
mouth.  .  .  .  All  my  soul,  with  all  its  faculties, 
transported  from  the  infinitely  distant  con- 
fines of  the  world  of  thought,  was  concen- 
trated and  poured  out  in  that  one  kiss  of  mine! 

Ah!  I  cannot  understand  what  it  was  that  at 
such  a  moment  held  me  back,  since  I  and  all 
that  was  mine  had  now  been  transformed  and 
had  passed  into  one  desire  alone.  It  was  no 
longer  thirst,  it  was  hunger — raging,  ravenous 
hunger.  I  clung  to  him  with  all  my  might, 
and  whispered  and  stammered  a  string  of 
broken  incoherent  words;  and,  in  a  delirium 
of  mingled  agony  and  bliss,  I  sighed  under 
my  breath: 

"Oh,  my  only  one;  oh,  my  own!" 

And  afterwards — afterwards,  when  he  had 


262  Kobiety 

left  my  side,  ungratified  and  disappointed,  as 
he  ever  had  been — then,  with  a  burst  of  heart- 
rending tears,  I  threw  myself  down  upon  the 
floor  near  the  door  which  had  just  closed  on 
him,  and  listened  to  the  sound  of  his  footsteps, 
and  murmured  imploringly: 

"Oh,  come — come — come  back!  I  am 
yours!" 

But  had  he  come  back — I  knew  it  well — I 
should  have  resisted  then,  as  always. 

And  perhaps  it  is  true  to  say  that  such  a 
thirst  as  mine  was  cannot  possibly  be  quenched 
by  any  delight  on  earth! 

All  is  once  more  as  it  was  of  old.  I  am 
much  in  love,  happy  (to  some  extent),  and 
slightly  sarcastic  -about  things  in  general. 
Witold  comes  daily;  he  is  good  and  tender  to 
me  beyond  words. 

Sometimes  our  conversation  flags.  Then 
we  read  together — novels  and  poems  only;  for 
Witold,  scientific  literature  is  non-existent.  A 
volume  of  Owinski's  poems,  just  published, 
has  given  us  many  a  pleasant  hour. 

She  is  right,  Idalia:  I  had  taken  all  things 
— and  that  also — too  much  in  earnest.  At 


A  Canticle  of  Love  263 

present,  I  am  trying  to  live  more  practically 
than  I  ever  did. 

Of  the  present  situation,  nothing  can  come 
—neither  marriage  nor  anything  else.  So,  as 
I  reckon,  it  may  last  at  the  most  one  year 
more.  I  have  to  be  prepared  for  that,  and  let 
the  parting  come  by  degrees  and  as  easily  as 
possible;  so  I  am  looking  beforehand  for  some 
rock  or  other  to  which  I  may  cling  when 
wrecked.  Now  and  then,  when  I  think  of  my 
ideals  once  cherished  in  the  past,  the  notion 
still  comes  to  me  (though  rarely)  of  a  love 
both  deep  and  wise. 

Better  seek  something  far  other  than  love — 
an  "aim  in  life" — some  idea — asceticism — 
even  such  as  a  nunnery  can  provide!  "Dans  la 
bete  assouvie  un  ange  se-  reveille!"  Yes,  but 
—is  it  "assouvie"?  Well,  I  am  rather  tired, 
not  only  of  love,  but  of  the  whole  atmosphere 
I  am  living  in. 

In  truth,  disdain  of  all  things  is  best  of  all. 
Yet  again,  disdain  itself  would  be  one  o-f  the 
things  to  be  disdained! 

I  am  curiously  entangled  at  present,  and  can 
scarcely  recognize  myself  as  "Her  of  the  Ice- 
Plains."  In  this  continual  struggle  with  my- 
self, my  strength  has  been  exhausted. 


264  Kobiety 

Ah,  yes ;  another  incident.  Czolhanski  has 
proposed  to  me  in  the  most  na'ive  fashion  im- 
aginable. Although  I  am  a  woman  of  "ad- 
vanced" ideas  (and  they  say  such  a  one  hardly 
can  make  a  good  wife) ,  still  he  is  not  alarmed ; 
he  trusts  in  me!  Besides,  he  could  not  live 
with  any  woman  unable  to  understand  him. 
.  .  .  Also,  he  gets  two  hundred  roubles  a 
month,  which,  together  with  my  office  salary, 
.  .  .  And  so  on. 

I  have  refused  him  categorically,  hope- 
lessly, irrevocably.  And — which  is  much 
more  strange — I  have  done  so  without  the 
shadow  of  a  smile. 

When  I  am  very  weary  and  out  of  sorts,  I 
go  and  call  up  Wiazewski.  There  are  people 
who  resemble  those  ships  which  were  for-' 
merly  used  by  slave  traders  to  convey  their 
human  freight:  these  had  a  double  hold.  And 
Wiazewski  is  one  of  such  men. 

He  allows  any  one  to  overhaul  his  soul  on 
the  asking,  freely  and  frankly.  Only  he  does 
not  like  them,  when  they  come  to  the  hold, 
to  knock  too  hard:  the  hollow  sound  under- 
neath would  betray  his  secret.  Beneath  the 
false  bottom,  there  is  a  dark  den  into  which 


A  Canticle  of  Love  265 

he  smuggles  those  he  has  enslaved  to  his  will, 
never  to  go  out  free  into  the  world  again.  The 
knowledge  of  this  would  spoil  his  reputation 
in  society  as  an  estimable  man. 

"Do  you  know,  Stephen,  you  look  like  a 
man  who  has  a  bit  of  a  tragedy  upon  his  con- 
science, and  is  concealing  it." 

He  laughed.  "Since  when  has  Janka  be- 
gun to  grow  romantic?" 

"Since  I  fell  in  love,  of  course  I" 

"You!!"    Astounded,  he  stared  at  me. 

"My  dear  friend,  what  can  there  be  to  sur- 
prise you  in  that?" 

"I  really  ...  no,  really  I  do  not  know.  I 
was  only  taken  aback.  Certainly,  on  your 
side,  it  is  but  a  natural  thing.  Don't  you  see? 
I  had  grown  so  accustomed  to  look  on  you  as 
belonging  to  a  third  sex." 

"There  now,  how  unjust  you  have  been  I  I 
on  my  own  part  have  always  looked  on  you  as 


a  man." 


"But  come,  tell  me  with  whom  you  are  in 
love,  and  whether  your  bliss  is  all  that  fancy 
painted  it." 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders. 

"Bliss!    It  is  you  who  are  romantic  now, 


266  Kobiety 

Stephen.  At  the  best,  I  am  not  bored.  And 
the  less  bliss  I  have,  the  less  bored  I  am!" 

"Then  you  are  not  bored?" 

"Oh,  I  am — very  much  so  at  times.  At  such 
moments,  I  come  and  call  on  you.  I  have 
learned  to  cherish  our  disinterested  friend- 
ship ever  more  and  more." 

He  moved  as  if  annoyed  a  little ;  then  he  lit 
a  cigarette. 

"Whom?" 

"I  don't  understand." 

"Whom  do  you  love?" 

"Oh,  an  ideal  according  to  your  own  taste. 
A  bon  entendeur  salut."  Note :  All  the  bet- 
ter if  you  have  caught  my  meaning. 

"Won't  you  tell  me?" 

"No,  I  won't.    Guess,  if  you  want  to  know." 

"A  fool?" 

"To  some  extent,  yes." 

"Handsome?" 

"Too  much  so  by  far." 

"Wealthy?" 

"Indifferently." 

"It  is — it  is  Imszanski!  Et  tu,  Janka!"  he 
exclaimed,  looking  into  my  face  with  a  curious 
expression. 


A  Canticle  of  Love  267 

I  knew  what  question  was  implied  by  his 
look,  and  slowly  shook  my  head. 

He  breathed  more  freely. 

"And  yet  I  should  never  have  imagined  . . ." 

"How's  that?  I  have  only  been  practising 
your  own  theory  of  love." 

"Ye— es,  but  .  .  ." 

"Well,  but  what?" 

"This  is  quite  another  thing.  Of  primitive 
elemental  simplicity  he  has  nothing  at  all." 

"It  is  true.  In  that  point,  and  in  that  point 
only,  has  my  practice  departed  from  your  the- 
ory. But  I  think  good  art  is  not  unfrequently 
preferable  to  problematical  simplicity." 

"Yes,  no  doubt.    And,  moreover  .  .  ." 

"Pray  continue." 

"I  myself  have  ended  by  abandoning  that 
theory  of  mine.  My  experience  with  Helena 
exploded  it  definitely.  I  have  radically 
changed  my  attitude;  now  I  am  without  any 
conviction  at  all  on  the  subject." 

"But  I  imagined  that  the  fallen  edifice  of 
your  theory  was  to  be  restored  by  the  aid  of 
kitchen-maids." 

"Vain  hopes!  They  have  proved  imprac- 
ticable, even  to  myself.  My  experiments  in 


268  Kobiety 

that  quarter  only  completed  the  ruin  of  the 
theory." 

"Well,  then,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about 
it?" 

"I  am  seeking  love." 

"Oh,  dear!  Et  tuf  And  it  was  to  you  I 
came  on  purpose  to  get  a  rest  from  it.  There 
must  be  some  fatality  about  all  this — the 
atmosphere  is  vitiated  everywhere.  .  .  . 
Stephen,  have  mercy,  have  mercy!" 

He  smiled  compassionately. 

"So  soon  as  that?  Janka,  how  soon  you  get 
tired!" 

We  went  to  a  cafe,  where  we  saw  Gina  sit- 
ting along  with  Radlowski  at  one  of  the  tables. 
There  were  none  vacant,  so  we  joined  them 
at  theirs,  and  I  introduced  the  men  to  each 
other.  Wiazewski  objects  to  artists;  but  he 
must  have  been  pleased  with  this  one,  whose 
exterior  is  that  of  a  typical  "gentleman."  I 
was  in  exceedingly  good  spirits,  and  set  about 
flirting  with  the  painter.  He  was  now  much 
changed  from  what  he  was  when  I  saw  him 
last.  His  eyes  are  not  bright  any  more,  and 
he  looks  a  good  deal  older.  We  fell  to  talk- 
ing upon  speculative  subjects,  and  I  strove  to 
be  original  and  sparkling.  Radlowski's  eyes 


A  Canticle  of  Love  269 

were  fixed  steadfastly  on  my  face  all  the  while. 

"Well,  I  see  you  are  far  more  of  a  woman 
than  I  had  ever  thought  you." 

My  answer  to  these  words  of  Stephen's  was. 
only  a  look,  but  a  look  of  triumph.  At  last 
it  had  come — this,  the  hardest  of  all  victories 
to  win!  .  .  .  Unfortunately,  it  came  too 
late.  .  .  . 

"In  a  few  years,"  he  added,  "when  all  your 
faculties  are  duly  balanced,  you  will  be  an  ex- 
ceptional being.  Perhaps  a  model  Woman  of 
the  Future.'  " 

"Oh,  anything  but  that.  I  take  no  interest 
except  in  what  goes  on  within  me.  If  I  am 
at  all  elated,  it  is  not  on  account  of  what  is 
there,  but  of  the  fact  that  these  forces  are 
incessantly  in  conflict  with  my  will.  I  am 
proud  of  my  imperfections  which  turn  to  per- 
fections, of  my  ideas  which  treat  one  another 
with  mutual  contempt,  of  my  instincts,  so 
strongly  opposed  to  my  logic ;  of  my  atavistic 
tendencies,  which  it  is  a  finer  and  more  mo- 
mentous work  to  unearth  and  to  note  down 
than  to  put  into  practice.  I  am  proud  of  the 
eternal  Becoming,  teeming  with  riches,  daz- 
zling with  the  wildest  hues,  deafening  with 
harsh  discordancies,  rushing  on,  moving 


270  Kobiety 

hither  and  thither,  turning  in  spiral  ascension, 
or  even  spinning  round.  Yes,  I  am  proud  that 
this  Becoming  still  goes  on.  I  prefer  a  hun- 
dred times  the  'Transitional  Woman'  to  the 
'Woman  of  the  Future' :  for  she  who  is  transi- 
tional promises  ever  so  much  more  than  the 
other,  when  perfect,  can  fulfil. 

"Neither  you,"  I  said,  turning  to  Gina, 
"with  your  quasi-Pantheistic  theory  of  love; 
nor  Madame  WildenhofF,  with  her  volatile 
and  almost  man-like  eroticism ;  nor  Idalia,  nor 
Martha — none  of  you  is,  any  more  than  I  am, 
a  woman  of  the  future;  you  are  full  of  exag- 
gerated theories,  of  crotchets,  of  false  notions, 
of  atavistic  trends  and  extreme  views.  Yet  I 
prefer  you  to  that  free  and  happy  woman  of 
our  dreams,  in  whom  desire,  conscious  and  in 
perfect  equilibrium,  will  not,  however  intense 
it  may  be,  trespass  beyond  the  limits  of  its 
possibility  to  be  satisfied.  Yes!  You  I  prefer 
to  the  most  perfect  of  standards,  to  the  very 
best  of  patterns,  to  the  wisest  and  most  con- 
sistent of — Philistines!" 

Gina  said  gloomily: 

"Then  what  is  it  all  for — this  ghastly  strug- 
gle, this  agony  of  Becoming?" 

"For  the  glory  of  the  last  specimens  of  our 


A  Canticle  of  Love  271 

species.  We  are  tending  towards  this  goal: 
that  the  abstract  type  of  Woman  may  perish 
as  soon  as  it  is  realized,  even  as  the  abstract 
type  of  Man  perished  also.  Having  attained 
that  level,  we  shall,  together  with  Man,  begin 
to  evolve  in  the  wider  sphere  of  our  common 
humanity.  The  struggle  and  the  war  of  the 
elements  which  make  up  our  nature  will  still 
continue  in  a  new  Becoming,  but  no  longer  in 
the  narrow  space  of  womanhood,  which  leaves 
us  too  little  room  to  breathe." 

"All  the  same,"  said  Stephen,  in  conclusion, 
"our  descendants  will  envy  us  very,  very  much, 
since  we  live  in  the  days  of  the  Last  Woman." 

"Let  us  hope  that  the  present  period  may 
endure  for  some  time;  say,  until  the  gorilla 
is  extinct." 

Stephen's  feeling  of  mediaeval  worship  for 
woman  was  shocked  at  my  words:  "Women 
and  gorillas  named  together!"  he  sighed. 

Whilst  we  were  going  home,  after  taking 
leave  of  Gina  and  Radlowski,  he  said,  hesi- 
tatingly and  in  some  confusion: 

"Janka,  do  not  make  a  pastime  of  that 
Imszanski  any  more:  he  is  not  worth  playing 
with." 

"Well  said,  but?  .  .  ." 


272  Kobiety 

"Hear  me  out,  Janka.  Till  the  present  mo- 
ment, I  was  not  aware  that  I  loved  you  and 
you  alone.  .  .  .  May  I  hope,  or  is  it  quite  out 
of  the  question?" 

"Good  God,  Stephen!  pray  don't  think  of 
proposing!  I  got  a  proposal  only  the  other 
day.  There  must  be  something  in  the  air — 
infection — the  approach  of  spring!  At  any 
rate,  I  am  not  in  a  consenting  mood  now;  so 
let  me  be." 

I  laughed,  but  was  in  reality  very  much 
upset. 

When  last  together,  Gina  asked  me  to  come 
over  to  her  apartments,  as  she  wanted  me  to 
read  something  she  had. 

It  was  almost  gayly  that  she  welcomed  me 
in.  Her  eyes  had  lost  their  customary  look 
of  apathy,  and  shone  with  a  strange  fire. 

"Owinski  is  going  to  be  married  this  very 
week,"  she  remarked,  as  if  stating  a  fact  which 
did  not  concern  her.  "Have  you  read  his 
poems?" 

"I  have;  Witold  and  I  read  them  together." 

"One  of  his  poems  had  been  dedicated  to 
me;  I  know,  for  I  myself  saw  it  in  proof — 
a  proof  that  I  myself  corrected.  And  now  the 


A  Canticle  of  Love  273 

dedication  has  been  removed  from  the  title. 
When  he  received  the  revised  proof,  he  prob- 
ably crossed  it  off." 

She  then  took  two  closely  written  sheets  of 
letter-paper  out  of  a  drawer. 

"A  letter  from  her!"  she  explained. 

"To  you!" 

"Yes.    Just  read  it." 

It  ran  thus: 

"I  have  long  been  wishing  to  write  to  you, 
Madame;  and  if  I  have  not  made  up  my  mind 
till  now,  this  was  neither  from  any  want  of 
courage  on  my  part,  nor  any  misplaced  sense 
of  delicacy,  which  would  in  this  case  be  not 
only  exaggerated,  but  groundless.  It  simply 
proceeded  from  the  fact  that,  as  I  think  the 
greatest  alleviation  of  sorrow  to  consist  in  the 
possibility  of  hating  some  one  on  account  of 
it,  I  did  not  like  to  deprive  you  of  the  object 
of  your  hate.  For  I  am  of  opinion  that,  as 
soon  as  you  have  read  this,  you  will  not  think 
me  your  enemy  any  more. 

"If  I  write  now,  it  is  because  I  believe  that, 
in  lieu  of  such  consolation,  I  am  able  to  afford 
you  another;  and  I  do  so  without  the  knowl- 
edge of  my  fiance,  for  I  have  my  doubts 


274  Kobiety 

whether  it  would  be  pleasant  to  him  or  the  re- 
verse; and  besides,  I  do  not  consider  him  as 
the  sole  means  by  which  we  might  come  to 
understand  each  other. 

"The  evening  on  which  we  were  both  under 
the  same  roof  has  remained  with  me  as  a  pain- 
ful memory.  Not  because  I  then  felt  at  all 
to  blame  on  your  account.  As  I  had  been 
aware  from  the  beginning  that  O.  was  affi- 
anced, I  played  no  active  part  in  the  matter 
to  attract  him.  Any  other  woman  might  have 
been  in  my  place,  and  done  just  the  same,  so 
far  as  you  were  concerned.  O.  was  at  that 
time  in  want  of  a  figure  upon  his  life  chess- 
board, such  as  is  called  a  formally  affianced 
wife;  so  we  met  and  encountered  each  other 
by  mere  chance — a  happening  without  logical 
relevance  to  anything.  Nor  was  it  because  I 
felt  for  you  what  is  called  pity.  My  mind 
would  never  consent  to  abase  you  by  venturing 
to  entertain  such  a  feeling;  and  I  think,  too, 
that  I  am  an  object  of  pity  not  less  than  your- 
self. No ;  the  meeting  was  painful  to  me  only 
for  the  following  reason ;  I  myself,  looking  on 
things  as  an  outsider,  cannot  help  having  a 
fellow-feeling  for  all  who  have  been  worsted ; 
so  that  I  experienced  self-dislike.  It  was 


A  Canticle  of  Love  275 

painful,  because  I  was  present  to  your  mind  as 
a  stranger,  a  successful  rival,  nothing  but  the 
fiancee  of  your  fiance,  a  hostile,  unknown  She: 
not  a  woman,  drawn  close  to  you  by  your  and 
my  sense  of  our  hard  fate.  It  was  painful  to 
me  to  sit  so  far  apart  from  you,  to  be  unable 
to  approach  you  and  look  into  your  thought- 
ful eyes  with  eyes  that  were  not  less  thought- 
ful, and  kindly  too,  and  talk  to  you  about 
many  a  subject  far  more  important  than  the 
law  which  thrusts  us  apart:  the  law,  known 
from  time  immemorial,  that  love  is  not  ever- 
lasting, and  that  it  needs  variety. 

"To  write  of  my  friendly  feeling  towards 
you  would  certainly  seem  somewhat  paradox- 
ical. I  will  therefore  say  no  more  than  this; 
I  deeply  and  sincerely  esteem  you,  as  one  after 
my  own  heart,  as  a  New  Woman,  a  woman 
conscious  of  her  own  value  and  of  her  rights; 
I  appreciate  you  also  for  your  subtlety  of  emo- 
tion, and  your  original  artistic  talent.  And 
then,  besides,  I  have  a  certain  debt  of  gratitude 
which  is  due  to  you  personally,  and  owing  to 
the  fact  that  O.  has  for  several  years  been 
pretty  faithful  to  you;  and  thus  the  list  of  his 
transitory  amours  which  distress  me  so  is  con- 
siderably shorter  than  it  would  otherwise  have 


276  Kobiety 

been.  I  bear  you  no  grudge,  no,  not  even 
when  O.  (for  my  delectation!)  goes  back  into 
the  past,  and  tells  me  all  about  his  former  love 
for  you. 

"I  trust  you  feel  no  longer  any  instinctive 
dislike  or  aversion  for  me ;  do  you?  And  now 
I  will,  in  return  for  what  you  have  to  suffer, 
give  you  the  information  that  you  have  indeed 
but  very  little  reason  to  envy  my  lot.  Like 
you,  I  am  one  of  those  unhappy  beings  who 
must  needs  suffer,  whatever  their  circum- 
stances may  be,  because  life  is  too  brutally  in- 
exorable, and  we — we  whose  nerves  are  laid 
bare — cannot  walk  through  life  without  suf- 
fering. Then,  examining  the  question  quite 
objectively,  may  we  not  unhesitatingly  assert 
that  it  is  preferable  to  endure  suffering  for  a 
positive  loss,  whilst  we  enjoy  the  memory  of 
past  happiness  (or  at  least  the  illusion  that 
such  happiness  would  have  been  possible,  had 
circumstances  and  environment  been  differ- 
ent) ,  rather  than  to  endure  it  at  that  one  period 
of  our  lives  when  we  ought  not  to  suffer  at  all? 
than  to  experience  such  distress  as  excludes 
the  possibility  that  we  may  so  much  as  dream 
of  ever  being  happy?  Is  not  misery  at  its 
height  in  the  very  springtime  of  life,  when 


A  Canticle  of  Love  277 

the  faculty  of  possible  enjoyment  is  most  de- 
veloped? In  this  indeed,  the  lot  of  our  fiance 
is  always  and  invariably  an  enviable  one.  I 
am  not  happy,  and  I  doubt  whether  you  have 
ever  known  happiness.  A  strange  being  he  is/ 
forever  plucking  flowers  and  smiling  in  the 
sunshine,  yet  unceasingly,  and  often  unwit- 
tingly, marking  his  road  through  life  by  the 
pain  he  gives  to  others,  and  by  the  tears,  so 
vain  and  so  unworthy  of  us,  which  he  makes 
us  shed. 

"So  I  am  not  writing  to  you  in  order  that  I 
may  enjoy  my  honeymoon  without  remorse, 
for — as  I  say  once  more — I  do  not  consider 
that  I  have  done  you  any  wrong.  I  only  want 
you  to  know  me  just  as  I  am,  and  not  to  look 
upon  me  as  a  stranger  or  a  foe.  I  am  not  given 
to  sentiment,  and  do  not  fear  the  hatred  of 
people:  on  the  contrary,  I  rather  like  it;  but 
I  do  not  wish  you  to  hate  me.  What  a  sad 
thing  it  would  be,  if  a  poet  could  succeed  in 
separating  two  intelligent  and  agreeable 
women  from  each  other  for  ever! 

"I  kiss  you,  and  with  the  warmest  affec- 
tion. .  .  ." 

"A  sweet  creature  she  is!"  I  remarked,  and 
looked  at  Gina. 


278  Kobiety 

She  was  looking  depressed,  and  much  older. 
Her  eyes  were  bedimmed,  and  wandering 
helplessly  from  piece  to  piece  of  furniture, 
from  wall  to  wall. 

"And  she  does  not  even  feel  any  love  for 
him!  A  cold-hearted  being,  made  for  noth- 
ing but  to  chop  logic!  And  he — for  her,  for 
her  .  .  .  !  Ah,  the  cruel  wrong!  Why  has  this 
come  to  me?" 

She  put  her  hands  up  to  her  head  and 
sobbed  aloud.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  she  snatched  the  letter  from  me, 
and  crumpled  it  up,  and  tore  it  all  to  pieces 
with  angry  fingers. 

"How  I  hate,  oh,  how  I  hate  that  woman!" 

I  brought  her  a  glass  of  water  to  calm  her 
nerves,  thinking  all  the  time  how  much,  in 
this,  her  unjust  outburst  of  fury,  she  was  pre- 
ferable to  the  other — the  magnanimous,  se- 
rene, lofty-minded  New  Woman. 

Smilowicz,  of  all  men  in  the  world!  was 
awaiting  me  outside  the  office  to-day. 

Time,  I  thought,  had  for  an  instant  run 
backward;  and  the  Past,  so  terribly  gone  and 
forgotten,  was  before  me. 

"What!   You!"    I   exclaimed;   "you,   back 


A  Canticle  of  Love  279 

from  Siberia  ?  How  long  have  you  been  here  ? 
...  I  had  not  been  told— 

"The  manifesto:  an  amnesty  .  .  .  Five 
years.  Yes,  five  have  passed  by.  I  arrived 
last  week,  and  have  seen  nobody  but  Obojan- 
ski.  He  did  not  even  know  your  address! 
Was  that  nice  of  you?  .  .  .  Oh,  how  greatly 
you  have  changed!  .  .  .  No,  I  did  not  expect 
such  backsliding  on  your  part  ...  I  have 
heard  many  things  said  .  .  ." 

"And  what  about  yourself?" 

I  saw  that  his  plain  face,  which  was  now 
adorned  with  a  thin  stubbly  beard,  was  much 
emaciated.  His  former  careless  smile  was 
now  quite  gone,  and  his  features  were  dark- 
ened and  bronzed  like  a  peasant's. 

"I  ?"  He  smiled,  but  with  his  lips  only,  that 
were  always  drawn :  once  with  suffering,  now 
with  having  suffered.  "I?  You  never  would 
guess.  I  married  down  there;  yes,  I  married 
a  fellow-exile.  And  we  have  a  son." 

"But  what  of  your  health?  And  what  are 
you  going  to  do  in  Warsaw?" 

"Something  or  other."  He  raised  his  hand, 
palm  down,  then  let  it  drop  limply.  "At  pres- 
ent I  am  more  or  less  amongst  the  unemployed. 


280  Kobiety 

Besides,  I  am  consumptive.  .  .  .  On  the 
whole,  prospects  not  very  brilliant." 

I  asked  him  to  come  to  my  lodgings. 

He  looked  uneasy.  "Are  you  living  with — 
them?"  he  asked. 

"No ;  now  no  longer." 

"Ah,  that's  very  good.  .  .  .  Professor  Obo- 
janski  told  me  fearful  things  about  you,  and 
they  grieved  me.  He  must  have  been  exag- 
gerating: he  bears  you  a  deep  grudge  for  hav- 
ing broken  with  him  so.  For  he  appreciates 
you  very  highly  indeed.  He  counts  your  hav- 
ing thrown  yourself  away  like  that  as  the 
greatest  disappointment  he  ever  had  in  his 
life." 

So  we  went  down  the  road,  chatting  about 
old  times.  He  informed  me  that  Roslawski 
had  gone  off  on  some  Polar  expedition.  I 
used  to  call  him  the  "Autocrat  of  the  Ice- 
plains":  it  seems  that  he  belongs  to  them  at 
any  rate. 

"But  now,"  Smilowicz  blurted  out,  rather 
bashfully,  "hadn't  you  better  come  and  see 
us?  I  have  told  Sophy  (my  wife)  all  about 
you;  she  would  like  to  make  your  acquaint- 
ance, and  does  not  know  anybody  in  Warsaw. 
And  you  will  see  Andy,  my  little  boy!" 


A  Canticle  of  Love          281 

I  of  course  agreed. 

Mme.  Smilowicz  received  us  in  a  tiny  room 
— bachelor's  lodgings  on  the  fourth  floor — 
amongst  a  confused  medley  of  boxes  and  mat- 
tresses and  lumber  of  various  kinds.  She  be- 
gan by  asking  us  to  speak  low,  not  to  disturb 
Andy,  who  was  then  asleep :  then  she  showed 
him  to  me:  a  one-year-old  baby,  asleep  in  a 
cradle.  It  had  a  tilted  Mongolian  nose,  the  re- 
sult, no  doubt,  of  the  mother's  having  so  often 
seen  the  type. 

I  paid  it  several  compliments,  of  the  What- 
a-fine-baby  sort,  and  had  not  the  least  fear  of 
being  suspected  of  irony. 

For  the  rest,  Mme.  Smilowicz  has  not  the 
appearance  of  a  "youthful  mother";  she  is  a 
thin  black-avised  little  woman  in  a  dark  gown, 
with  a  double  eye-glass  on  her  nose. 

She  poured  some  spirits  of  wine  into  the 
little  pan  for  heating  the  kettle,  and  while  it 
was  burning  itself* out,  she  said,  very  low: 

"My  dear  Madame,  people  say  that  women 
are  weaker  than  men.  But  they  do  not  in  the 
least  take  into  account  all  the  strength  that  we 
expend  over  the  children;  just  as  if  it  were 
uselessly  wasted!  But  furthermore,  and  set- 
ting this  aside,  let  any  one  of  them  try  to  go 


282  Kobiety 

through  what  I  have  undergone.  With  a 
child  one  year  old,  my  dear  Madame!  in  that 
bleak  ice-bound  land!  and  then,  on  our  way 
home,  having  to  do  everything,  my  husband 
in  wretched  health.  .  .  .  And  here  again, 
look  you!  notwithstanding  all  this  work  on  my 
hands,  I  have  managed  to  translate  thus  much : 
and  now  we  shall  be  able  to  sell  it  somewhere. 
Joseph  dear,  have  you  been  able  to  see  the 
publisher  to-day?" 

She  pointed  to  a  heap  of  papers,  written  in 
a  fine  female  hand.  Her  husband  smiled  at 
me  proudly. 

As  soon  as  the  spirits  were  burnt  out,  Mme. 
Smilowicz  worked  the  piston  with  swift 
strokes,  pumping  up  a  stream  of  gas,  while 
her  husband  held  a  match  to  light  it  as  it  is- 
sued forth.  A  loud  droning  sound  was  heard, 
and  a  slight  smell  of  naphtha  was  discernible. 

"Won't  the  noise  wake  little  Andy?"  I 
queried,  with  sham  solicitude. 

"No,  no,  he  is  accustomed  to  it  now." 

We  took  tea,  discussing  abstract  topics  the 
while.  I  had  not  read  any  of  the  books  which 
they  mentioned ;  and  I  found  this  a  hard  thing 
to  acknowledge.  I  had  the  impression  of  be- 
ing spirited  away  on  to  some  other  planet,  and 


A  Canticle  of  Love  283 

felt  all  the  time  out  of  countenance  and  like 
an  intruder.  Also,  my  new  dress  was  in  such 
glaring  and  unpleasant  contrast  with  its  en- 
vironment here:  and  I  had  it  borne  in  upon 
me  that  my  life,  too,  was  in  the  same  contrast. 

After  the  machine  had  been  put  out  and 
droned  no  more,  there  was  heard  a  noise  of 
children  from  beyond  the  partition  wall:  a 
hubbub  as  of  many  voices,  now  and  then  in- 
terrupted by  the  thin  sound  of  a  piercing  fe- 
male voice.  On  the  fourth  floor,  a  lot  of 
youngsters  were  making  merry. 

"Do  you  hear  that,  Madame?  And  it  is 
just  the  same,  every  day  almost.  They  are 
dreadfully  in  the  way  of  my  work.  Why  are 
the  walls  made  so  thin?" 

I  was  amazed,  and  could  not  help  rather 
envying  her;  the  contrast  between  us  was  so 
very  glaring,  and  yet  she  had  not  even  re- 
marked it!  She  was  thinking  only  of  this 
annoyance;  made  no  comparison,  drew  no 
parallel  whatever! 

Andy  in  his  cradle  now  set  up  a  loud  and 
lusty  wailing. 

She  jumped  up  from  the  table,  jostling  me 
in  her  haste,  and  rocked  the  child  to  sleep 
again,  crooning  low  an  inarticulate  lullaby, 


284  Kobiety 

tuneless,  wordless,  and  not  unlike  that  broken 
croaking  which  frogs  utter.  And  again  and 
again  she  would  say: 

"Little  son  of  mine,  my  only  one,  my  beau- 
tiful one!" 

And  then,  sitting  down  to  tea  again,  she 
spoke  in  a  most  interesting  way  about  one 
of  the  books  she  had  recently  translated.  It 
was  from  the  English — essays  on  Economics. 

"Joseph  encourages  me  to  write  something 
as  well ;  but  for  that  one  must  have  one's  mind 
more  at  ease." 

Then,  with  a  tender  look  that  she  cast  on 
her  husband: 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "that  Joseph  will  soon 
be  better  in  our  climate;  when  he  was  sent 
away  from  Poland,  he  was  in  perfect  health. 
Do  you  remember  how  he  looked  in  those 
days?" 

"Certainly  I  do ;  very  well  indeed." 

And  I  proceeded  to  tell  her  of  the  expedi- 
tions we  both  used  to  make  to  Obojanski's. 

"But,"  I  observed,  "you  have  worked  a  mir- 
acle; he  was  always  absolutely  insensible  to 
the  charms  of  womankind."  This  I  said  out 
of  kindness,  fearing  lest  I  might  otherwise  give 
occasion  to  thoughts  of  jealousy  and  suspicion. 


A  Canticle  of  Love  285 

I  soon  felt,  however,  that  such  delicacy  was 
out  of  place  and  lost  upon  her;  she  was  im- 
pervious to  any  fancies  of  that  kind. 

"When  at  the  High  School,"  she  told  me, 
"I  made  it  my  purpose  in  life  to  reconcile  my 
duties  toward  society  with  those  that  I  owed 
to  myself.  People  who  are  against  women's 
emancipation  say  that  no  woman  can  at  the 
same  time  go  in  for  book-learning  and  be  a 
good  wife  and  mother.  That  is  their  strong- 
est argument.  But,  if  only  women  themselves 
would  recognize  that  this  is  possible,  and  that 
everything  can  be  made  to  agree!  I  myself, 
my  dear  Madame,  finished  my  course  of  So- 
ciology in  Brussels,  where  I  even  published  a 
short  paper  in  French.  Since  then  I  have  fol- 
lowed the  onward  march  of  science,  so  as  to 
be  always  up-to-date:  I  am  reading  contin- 
ually, and  am  occupied  in  translating  at  pres- 
ent. .  .  .  Sometimes,  too,  I  am  able  to  help 
Joseph  with  facts  and  information.  And  now 
I  ask  you,  my  dear  Madame,  could  the  most 
stolid  bourgeoise,  if  placed  in  my  circum- 
stances, give  herself  more  to  her  child  than  I 
do!  Consider,  I  have  no  nursemaid,  nor  any 
of  the  aids  which  those  much  belauded  'good 
mothers'  enjoy.  I  suckle  the  baby  myself,  I 


286  Kobiety 

tidy  the  room,  I  do  the  cooking,  the  porteress 
brings  me  provisions  from  the  market,  and  that 
is  all.  Oh,  how  I  wish  some  of  those  keen- 
witted gentlemen  could  come  here  and  see!" 

"Yes,"  Smilowicz  put  in  here,  "if  a  working 
woman  is  out  of  doors  all  day  long,  leaving 
her  children  uncared  for,  that  is  in  order  and 
reasonable  and  right!  But  let  a  woman  con- 
secrate a  few  hours  to  her  studies  in  the 
evening,  they  will  say  this  is  emancipation, 
and  incompatible  with  her  duties  as  a 
mother." 

I  could  see  how  gratified  she  was  to  hear 
this. 

"I  am  only  sorry  for  those  who  do  not  know 
what  exceeding  happiness  is  to  be  found  in 
marriage,  if  there  is  but  mutual  understand- 
ing and  sympathy."  And  she  glanced  at  her 
husband  with  extreme  tenderness. 

Meanwhile,  there  was  a  continual  noise  on 
the  other  side  of  the  partition,  and  there  came 
a  curiously  disturbing  sound  of  women's 
voices,  cackling  with  a  sort  of  scandalized 
laughter — something  between  giggling  and 
sobbing. 

Smilowicz's  attention  was  drawn  off  by  it. 


A  Canticle  of  Love  287 

"What  beasts  they  are!"  he  said  at  last,  to 
relieve  his  feelings. 

"They  are  not  malicious,  but  unhappy,"  she 
said.  "For  them  too,  I  feel  sorry." 

Smilowicz  made  no  reply.  Presently  he  was 
trying  to  persuade  me  to  go  over  and  see  Obo- 
janski  one  of  these  days. 

"Always  plunged  in  those  books  of  his — 
overhead  and  ears  in  them — indifferent  to 
everything  else  that  goes  on  throughout  the 
wide  world.  His  study  seems  to  me  now  such 
a  haven  as  one  might  dream  for.  .  .  .  Yes,  let 
us  go  one  day  and  visit  him,  Miss  Janina." 

Really,  no  bad  notion,  that.  As  to  Smilo- 
wicz's  surroundings,  they  do  not  agree  with 
me.  Since  I  have  got  rid  of  all  such  associa- 
tions, I  do  not  care  to  return  to  them.  And 
then,  that  woman!  Willingly  would  I  throw 
her  out  of  the  window  to  the  Idealistic 
dreamer  of  the  noble  New  Woman,  equal  to 
Man;  and  I  should  cry  Ecce  femina!  Like 
Diogenes  throwing  the  plucked  cock  to  Plato. 

Yes ;  for  the  vision  of  the  Idealist  is  realized 
—thus ! 

But  Obojanski,  the  venerable,  grey-bearded 
Master,  with  his  mien  of  a  Greek  sage;  and 
his  never-ending,  shallow  sophistries  and 


288  Kobiety 

cheap  disputes  upon  matters  of  the  highest  im- 
port; and  even  his  many  volumes  of  mono- 
graphs on  insects — all  this  has  something  that 
to  me  is  singularly  attracting! 

To-day,  tenderness  and  mutual  vows  once 
more.  .  .  .  Ay,  we  shall  love,  love,  love  each 
other  till  .  .  . 

"Listen,  Witold;  for  how  long  are  we  to  be 
in  love  so?"  I  asked;  a  question  I  myself  had 
not  expected  to  put. 

"Forever,"  he  answered  with  absolute  as- 
surance. 

"And  how  long  is  this  'forever'  to  last?" 

"Ah,  well — of  course — as  long  as  we  live. 
Do  you  believe  in  love  beyond  the  grave?" 

"Decidedly  not!" 

"Then,  until  death.  And  as  I  shall  surely 
be  the  first  to  drop  off,  I  shall  have  the  best 
of  it."  And  he  bowed  as  a  courtier  in  Ver- 
sailles, two  centuries  ago. 

I  concentrated  my  thoughts  for  a  time.  Be- 
hold me,  sitting,  clad  in  the  raiments  of  ancient 
Greece,  upon  a  bench  of  stone,  my  bare  and 
shapely  elbow  resting  on  a  balustrade.  .  .  . 
Bending  over  the  marble  barrier,  I  look  down, 
coldly,  scrutinizingly,  into  the  depths  be- 


A  Canticle  of  Love  289 

yond — the  depths  of  my  soul.  And  behold,  it 
is  an  abyss  more  than  of  infinite  depth. — Alas! 
my  ponderings,  imaged  thus,  tell  me  but  that 
in  such  an  attitude,  and  thus  arrayed,  I  look 
very  handsome! 

The  sun  is  glaring  high  in  heaven.  Float- 
ing on  the  bright  sea-waves  is  a  light  bark, 
with  the  prow  shaped  like  a  swan's  neck;  and 
Witold  is  sitting  in  the  bark.  He  smiles  as 
he  floats  so  lightly — floats  on  the  sea  of  life. 
And  I — I  remain  aimlessly  gazing  into  those 
depths  of  my  own  being.  .  .  . 

"Witold,  you  know  that  all  this  sort  of  thing 
must,  sooner  or  later,  come  to  an  end?" 

"How  should  I  know  that?" 

"Not  by  experience?" 

"Ah!  Janka,  my  dearest,  how  often  have  I 
entreated  you!"  Then,  in  a  gayer  tone:  "I 
am  not  an  experimentalist  in  any  sense  of  the 
word.  And  it  is  thus  that  I  know  to-day  just 
as  much  as  I  did  yesterday;  and  I  cling  to  my 
illusions  as  I  did  of  old  times." 

"But  why  will  you  never  consider  this  ques- 
tion with  your  eyes  open  and  face  to  face? 
Why  are  you  for  ever  afraid  of  it?  Why  must 
the  dreadful  burden  of  seeing  things  clearly 
always  be  borne  by  me?  Oh,  Witold!" 


290  Kobiety 

He  did  not  answer  me,  but  walked  nerv- 
ously up  and  down  the  apartment.  Then, 
coming  to  a  stop  at  a  small  table,  with  his  face 
turned  away  from  me,  he  lit  a  cigarette. 

A  short  silence  followed.    Then  I  went  on. 

"It's  not  that  I  want  anyone  to  lean  upon. 
Understand  me.  I  am  not  in  need  of  any  sus- 
taining or  protecting  power.  I  only  wish  for 
some  power  able  to  counterbalance  my  own. 
I  want  to  be  helped  by  strength  equivalent  to 
that  which  I  myself  put  forth :  I  would  only 
have  an  equal  weight  in  each  scale.  .  .  .  Oh, 
if  you  but  knew  how  terrified  I  am,  when  my 
scale,  becoming  heavier,  sinks  down,  down, 
into  the  very  lowest  depths  of  my  sad  unfath- 
omable pride!" 

Here  I  paused  for  a  time,  awaiting  some 
reply. 

Unexpectedly,  he  began  to  speak,  quietly,  in 
smooth  tones,  and  without  looking  in  my 
direction. 

"Let  me  tell  you,  Janka — I  never  yet  spoke 
to  you  about  this,  but  to-day  I  must:  it  weighs 
upon  me  too  heavily,  too  insupportably. 
Straightforward  I  am,  it  may  be,  but  I  am  not 
a  man  who  enjoys  telling  the  truth ;  I  simply 
don't  like  it.  Well,  there's  one  point  .  .  ." 


A  Canticle  of  Love  291 

He  broke  off,  to  continue  presently  in  yet 
smoother  tones. 

"There's  one  point — I  must  tell  you,  my 
dearest  love,  that  you  make  me  suffer  extreme 
tortures.  Yes,  you  do.  You  sometimes  tor- 
ture me  to  such  an  extent  that  I  lose  all  self- 
command,  all  patience.  ...  I  am  in  torments, 
to  put  it  plainly — I  beseech  you,  believe  what 
I  am  saying  now.  I  cannot  break  myself  in 
to  accept  your  theories.  I  am  unable ;  besides, 
I  will  not.  .  .  .  You  make  no  sacrifice,  you. 
Have  you  ever  given  anything  up  for  my  sake? 
No.  If  not,  you  have  no  right  to  lay  down 
conditions.  You  must  take  me  as  I  am;  try 
to  understand  me  and  to  adapt  yourself  to  me, 
rather  than  me  to  yourself.  Remember,  I 
have  no  sympathy  whatever  with  high-flown 
sentiments ;  I  cannot  walk  on  stilts.  I  cannot, 
no,  I  cannot!  All  that  is  such  a  trial  to  me  that 
I  am  often  longing  to  get  away — away — as  far 
as  I  possibly  can  go!  And  so  I  concoct  un- 
truths, invent  mythical  shooting  and  supper- 
parties,  and  go  to  imaginary  meetings — sim- 
ply because  I  have  to  breathe  now  and  then. 
You  can  see  that  I  am  at  present  speaking  the 
truth!  Not  that  I  do  not  love  you!  Oh,  no! 
who  is  it — if  I  did  not  love  you  so  deeply,  so 


292  Kobiety 

intensely  as  I  do — who  is  it  that  could  make 
me  bear  this  even  for  one  instant?  .  .  .  Truly, 
you  have  not  the  slightest  idea  to  what  lengths 
of  despotism  your  strong  individuality  drives 
you.  Your  demands  on  me  are  endless,  Janka ; 
you  put  me  in  fetters,  with  your  exactions,  and 
those  tastes  of  yours  that  I  have  to  follow. 
Have  I  ever,  in  anything  whatever,  interfered 
with  you?  No ;  never  have  I  brought  forward 
the  slightest  claim  to  anything;  nay,  I  have 
preferred  that  you  should. feel  yourself  in  some 
respect  to  be  in  arrears  with  me,  for  I  rever- 
ence the  liberty  of  others.  Why  can  you  not 
have  the  same  toleration  for  me?  ...  And 
then,  for  the  life  of  me,  I  cannot  make  out 
why  you  are,  all  of  you,  of  such  jealous  dis- 
positions ;  nor  why  you  all  go  on  everlastingly 
philosophizing  in  that  way!" 

His  outbreak  having  exhausted  him,  he  sat 
down  on  an  arm-chair  at  some  distance  from 
me,  and  proceeded  to  light  another  cigarette. 

For  many  minutes,  I  was  dumbstruck,  try- 
ing to  dig  my  way  out  of  the  ruins  of  that 
building  which  had  fallen  upon  me  so  sud- 
denly and  in  a  way  so  unforeseen.  Who  would 
have  expected  this  from  this  page  of  mine, 
with  his  sweet,  tawny  eye-lashes. 


A  Canticle  of  Love  293 

At  first,  I  was  unable  to  realize  it. 

"But  I  see,  Witold,  that  you  have  not  the 
least  love  for  me — that  is,  for  what  is  most 
essential  in  me ;  I  have  at  last  found  it  out." 

I  mused  awhile. 

"And  then,  besides,  what  you  say  is  untrue. 
Recall  which  of  us  two  revels  more  in  high- 
flown,  naive,  silly,  maudlin  sentiment!  Who 
was  it  was  always  dreaming  of  an  ideal 
'brotherhood  of  souls,'  instead  of  regarding 
love  in  the  ordinary  way?  It  was  I  who  can- 
not bear  what  is  high-flown;  I,  who  always 
had  to  bring  you  down  from  your  stilts." 

Witold  was  looking  out  of  the  window. 
There  was  in  his  bearing  aristocratic  boredom 
and  lassitude,  plainly  expressed. 

"Ah,  Janka,"  he  said,  this  time  in  a  tone  of 
supreme  indifference,  "that,  too,  is  on  your 
part  all  theory.  Of  this  you  only  make  use, 
that  you  may  struggle  against  the  high-flown 
sentimentality  which  you  feel  within  you, 
though  you  disown  it,  and  deny  its  existence. 
And  the  eternal  conflict  with  yourself  in  which 
you  are  plunged,  and  your  empty  theories, 
with  their  unconscious  hypocrisy — these  are 
the  best  proof  of  what  I  say,  and  the  most 
high-flown  sentimentality  of  all.  .  .  .  Only 


294  Kobiety 

you  delude  yourself.  .  .  .  You  are  just  as 
other  women  are,  capable  of  infinite  self-de- 
votion and  sacrifice.  Hear  me  still.  If  I  were 
now  to  love  you  no  longer,  to  go  away  from 
you  and  forget  you  (men  forget  so  very  read- 
ily), you  would  be  longing  for  me,  and  in 
anguish,  like  any  other  woman  in  the  same 
situation,  and  in  spite  of  all  your  'positive' 
theories;  you  would  be  miserable,  as  you  were 
during  the  last  two  weeks  when  we  were 
parted ;  and  you  would  again  write  first  to  me. 
And  should  I  not  come  in  answer  to  it — as  I 
had  a  great  mind  not  to  come,  nothwithstand- 
ing  my  'idealistic'  way  of  looking  at  love — • 
why  then,  you  would  write  again  and  again, 
even  to  the  tenth  time!  Don't  say  you  would 
not;  I  know  you  well.  Oh,  how  well  I  know 
women!  I'll  tell  you  what:  I  am  still  more 
certain  that  you  love  me  and  wiil  be  faithful 
than  I  was  in  Martha's  case,  for  all  you  say 
about  paying  me  in  my  own  coin,  if  I  were 
false.  Martha  could  forget  herself  for  my 
sake;  you  never  could.  A  bundle  of  theories, 
of  sentimental  scepticism,  of  self-assurance: 
that's  what  you  are!  A  poor  frightened  bird 
always  popping  its  head  under  its  wing!" 
I  felt  quite  broken.  There  was  an  immense 


A  Canticle  of  Love  295 

and  awful  void  in  my  heart  I  had  the  odd 
delusion — or  had  his  words  suggested  the 
feeling? — that  I  really  experienced  the  weak- 
ness of  which  he  spoke,  and  was  unable  to  es- 
cape from  his  hands.  Thereupon,  I  began  to 
cry. 

"I  don't — I  don't  believe — that  you  ever 
loved  me!" 

In  an  instant  he  had  changed  his  manner, 
and  become  kind  and  gentle  as  he  had  always 
been  before.  He  came  to  my  side,  with 
caresses  and  words  of  comfort;  even  a  little 
friendly  banter. 

"Alas!"  I  groaned;  "why  did  you  never  tell 
me  about  this  before?" 

"Because  I  was  quite  sure  that  you  would 
burst  out  crying,  as  you  are  doing  at  present, 
you  naughty  child!" 

At  those  words,  directly  and  on  the  spur 
of  the  moment,  there  fell  upon  me  a  sense  of 
strong  distaste.  Back  to  my  memory  came 
in  swarms  all  sorts  of  seeming  trifles,  which, 
together  with  many  a  minute  detail  of  our 
past,  made  proof  demonstrative  and  irrefut- 
able ...  of  what  he  was. 

"And  you  were  quite  sure,  Witold,  of 
something  else  into  the  bargain!" 


296  Kobiety 

"What  was  that,  Janka?" 

With  downcast  eyes  I  answered,  smiling: 

"That  I  should  never  love  you  any  more." 

I  had  spoken  with  absolute  candour  and 
certitude.  I  knew  this  to  be  a  necessity  of  life 
to  me ;  and  I  wiped  my  last  tears  away — 

"Bah!  give  over,  little  girl.  Do  you  not 
see  this  too  is  silly  sentiment?  You  yourself 
don't  believe  what  you  say."  He  still  spoke 
as  in  tones  of  tranquil  persuasion;  but  I  could 
see  disquietude  looking  out  of  his  eyes. 

I  smiled  at  him  once  more,  saying: 
"Whether  I  believe  or  not,  matters  little. 
What  matters  is  that  you  certainly  do!" 

He  turned  a  trifle  pale,  and  felt  nervously 
for  his  cigarette-case.  "Give  over!"  he  cried 
out  roughly,  on  a  sudden,  and  again  came 
towards  me. 

I  rose,  quivering  all  over  with  excitement, 
but  managed  to  say,  calmly  enough : 

"I  should  not  like  to  part  from  you  too 
tragically.  And  since  I  have  had  enough  of 
love  in  general,  and  enough  of  your  person 
especially,  I  am  afraid  I  must  ask  you  to  have 
the  goodness  to  withdraw  now.  Let  us 
shake  hands  on  parting.  Go." 

He    came    forwards,    with    knit    gloomy 


A  Canticle  of  Love  297 

brows,  and  looks  which  betrayed  the  storm 
that  raged  within  him.  I  stepped  backwards. 
He  stood  for  an  instant  struggling  with  him- 
self, and  I  fully  expected  he  would  rush  at  me. 

But  his  breeding  prevailed.  He  made  a 
courtly  bow,  kissed  my  hand  and  retired. 

I  stood  where  I  was,  with  head  bent  for- 
ward. .  .  .  That  page,  with  his  dear  tawny 
eye-lashes — with  his  soft  sad  eyes — with  his 
lips,  of  the  odour  of  faded  roses — he  that  once 
had  been  mine! 

"All  the  same,"  I  whispered  to  myself,  "the 
thing  is  done  at  last!" 

To-day  I  feel  I  have  crossed  the  Rubicon, 
and  am  standing  on  the  farther  shore,  not  very 
sure  whether  things  are  better  with  me  now. 
And  yet,  I  should  not  wish  to  go  back  again. 

I  have  this  morning  received  several  nose- 
gays. 

Flowers  to  embellish  the  funeral  repast! 
Flowers  on  the  coffin  of  one  gone  forever! 

But  that  is  nothing.  No,  nothing,  I  swear! 
Often  and  often  the  monument  over  a  sepul- 
chre may  turn  into  a  gate  that  leads  to  a  new 
life. 


298  Kobiety 

Smilowicz  has  come  to  see  me. 

He,  too,  is  mentally  depressed  at  times: 
which  I  should  never  have  suspected. 

He  edged  himself  into  the  very  arm-chair 
in  which  Witold  had  been  seated  last  eve- 
ning. For  some  time  he  was  silent;  and  then: 
"There  are  days,"  he  said,  "when  I  think  my- 
self an  idiot  for  having  wasted  my  life  over  a 
mere  shadow.  Oh,  how  I  envy  you!" 

"Why,  is  your  life  wasted?"  I  cried  in 
amazement. 

"You  have  been  at  our  lodgings — and  you 
have  seen."  .  .  . 

"Well?" 

"You  have  seen  all!" 

"But  your  wife  is  a  happy  woman,"  I  said, 
trying  to  take  the  optimistic  side  of  things; 
though  all  the  time  I  was  saying  to  myself 
(and  I  really  don't  know  why)  :  "How  is 
love  possible  between  those  two?" 

"My  wife  may  be  so,"  he  said,  slowly. 
"Sometimes  I  cannot." 

"They  say  it  is  a  great  thing  to  have  chil- 
dren.   Even  if  you  do  not  attain  the  goal  you 
aim  at,  there  always  remains  something  of  1 
you." 

My  remark  elicited  no  reply  from  him.    I 


A  Canticle  of  Love  299 

could  see  painful  and  bitter  thoughts  flit  over 
his  thin  face,  as  he  looked  round  the  room. 

"You  have  no  end  of  flowers!"  he  mur- 
mured. 

"These  are  all  flowers  of  farewell.  These 
at  least  you  need  not  envy  me." 

His  face  darkened. 

"You  know  how  ill  I  am.  That  is  what 
makes  me  so  hateful.  Not  that  I  regret  life, 
but  that  I  have  nothing  in  life  to  regret 
losing." 

I  did  not  answer. 

"To  know  for  sure  that  death  is  at  hand 
gives  you  quite  another  outlook  upon  life.  An 
extraordinary  attachment  to  things  positive 
springs  up,  together  with  an  intense  hate  for 
abstractions.  Each  renunciation,  each  victory 
over  self,  is  to  you  like  a  fresh  nail  in  your 
coffin." 

"But  you  surely  love  your  wife?"  I  asked 
him,  after  a  pause. 

"I  do." 

"And  your  son,  too?" 

He  gave  a  nod. 

"Well,  then  ..."  I  tried  to  draw  some 
comforting  inference,  but  unsuccessfully. 


300  Kobiety 

"Well,  then  ..."  I  repeated  once  more,  and 
once  more  relapsed  into  helpless  silence. 

"Ah,  how  kind  you  are!"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice,  and  looked  at  me  for  some  time  with  a 
grateful  expression.  "And  how  beautiful  be- 
sides!" he  added  unexpectedly. 

I  felt  startled:  mere  instinct  on  my  part, 
for  I  had  no  reason  to  fear.  He  glanced  away 
from  me,  and  turned  his  attention  to  some  or- 
chids that  stood  close  to  him,  stroking  them 
with  his  bony  hand. 

"When  I  ask  myself  now  for  what  reason 
I  did  what  I  did,  I  can  find  no  answer  to  my 
question.  Such  flowers  as  these;  I  have  gone 
through  life,  always  trampling  upon  them; 
why?  Why  should  Obojanski  cut  them  to 
pieces,  that  he  may,  in  them  and  from  them, 
hit  upon  some  new  abstraction  or  other — their 
genus,  their  species,  their  variety?  Why  do 
you  call  them  flowers  of  farewell?  Oh,  now 
that  I  know  how  terrible  the  way  of  self- 
denial  and  virtue  is,  I  should  this  day  like  to 
lie  on  a  bed  of  flowers  such  as  these." 

"I  can  answer  to  your  question:  You 
trampled  the  flowers,  because  you  were  a 
strong  man." 


A  Canticle  of  Love  301 

"Is  love  of  life  a  weakness  then?"  He  fell 
a-thinking. 

"Perhaps  it  is.  Perhaps  I  care  for  life  for 
the  same  reason  that  made  Voltaire  confess 
before  he  died:  vital  energy  giving  way. 
And  after  all,  life!" 

Here  I  set  to  explain  to  him  at  great  length 
that  life  is  in  reality  an  evil,  and  not  worth 
regretting  when  it  goes  from  us,  that  in  its 
track  it  leaves  a  bitterness  still  greater  than 
the  bitterness  of  self-denial  and  self-control, 
and  evokes  a  yet  stronger  reaction.  .  .  . 

To  that  he  said:  "Yes,  the  reaction  which 
life  brings  is  directed  against  life,  and  makes 
it  easier  to  die.  All  the  better." 

"It  is  well,"  he  added.  "It  is  not  after  all 
life  itself  that  I  wish  for.  I  wish  only  to  be 
convinced — convinced  by  experience  that  life 
is  an  evil  thing.  This  is  all  that  I  would 
have." 

When  he  left  me,  I  presented  him  with  a 
great  many  flowers,  begging  him,  as  a  pretext, 
to  carry  them  to  his  wife  from  me. 

Looking  out  of  the  window,  I  saw  him  go- 
ing his  way,  clad  in  a  fur,  notwithstanding 
the  mildness  of  the  weather,  and  pressing  my 
flowers  to  his  heart. 


302  Kobiety 

In  the  evening.  I  sent  to  Wiazewski,  ask- 
ing him  to  step  in.  I  thought  he  would  be 
some  consolation  to  me;  but  though  he  made 
visible  endeavours  to  show  good  humour,  he 
had  none.  I  therefore  proposed  we  should 
take  a  walk. 

It  was  a  splendid  night,  fine  and  breezy,  and 
steeped  in  the  sweet,  drowsy,  dizzying  per- 
fume of  coming  spring.  The  lamplights 
twinkled  away,  far  into  the  distance,  like  in- 
numerable strings  of  diamonds;  the  streets 
were  deserted,  but  brightly  lit.  The  white 
moon  was  now  and  then  visible  above  the  ir- 
regular line  of  the  housetops.  All  was  pic- 
turesquely calm  and  cold — a  condition  that  I 
especially  like. 

Our  way  led  us  down  a  great  thoroughfare, 
along  which  a  few  belated  carriages  were 
passing. 

Stephen  was  jesting;  but  it  went  against  the 
grain.  He  was  telling  me  about  the  tragical 
fate  of  some  disappointed  suitor. 

Just  in  front  of  us,  at  the  very  corner  of 
the  street,  and  opposite  the  doorway  of  a 
large  hotel,  a  brilliantly  elegant  equipage, 
coming  at  full  speed,  suddenly  pulled  up. 

A  servant  ran  to  open  the  carriage-door. 


A  Canticle  of  Love  303 

Witold  jumped  out  nimbly,  and  helped  a 
woman  to  descend. 

Springing  lightly  from  the  step,  and  walk- 
ing by  his  side  at  a  rapid  pace,  magnificent  in 
billowy  furbelows  and  lace,  and  spreading 
around  her  an  atmosphere  of  dainty  odours, 
Iseult  Lermeaux  went  in. 

Witold's  eye  caught  mine  at  the  very  mo- 
ment when,  helping  her  out  of  the  carriage,  he 
was  about  to  take  her  arm.  In  the  glare  of 
the  electric  lamps,  I  saw  him  turn  deadly  pale. 
He  bowed  instinctively;  his  arms  dropped  to 
his  side:  he  was  at  a  loss  what  to  do. 
Wiazewski's  presence  embarrassed  him,  and 
he  stood  like  one  transfixed.  She  turned 
round  and  also  glanced  at  us. 

And  thus  they  disappeared  as  we  walked 
down  the  long  bright  vista  of  the  street,  and 
we  saw  them  no  more.  "No  laggard,  that 
man!"  I  thought.  "The  very  next  day!" 

"As  I  don't  wish  you  to  feel  sorry  for  me, 
Stephen,  I  will  inform  you  that  I  have  al- 
ready broken  with  that  gentleman;  so  that 
his  doings  do  not  concern  me  in  the  least  now." 

At  my  words,  Wiazewski  slackened  his 
pace. 

"Why,  in  that  case,  Janka  .  .  ."  he  began. 


304  Kobiety 

"Pray,  Stephen,  don't.  I  begged  you  once 
before- 

He  said  nothing  further  then,  and  walked 
on  for  a  considerable  time  with  head  bent 
down ;  finally,  he  said  to  me  in  an  undertone : 

"May  we  not  think  of  marriage,  merely  as 
a  bond  of  friendship?" 

"No,  no!  ...  Can  you  not  see  that  a  wife 
never  has  the  disinterestedness  of  a  friend? 
How  can  she  be  at  one  with  her  husband  in 
everything?  In  many  cases,  she  would  be 
wronging  herself.  For  instance,  what  inter- 
ests me  most  in  you — your  scorn  both  for 
things  ethical  and  emotional — would,  if  I 
were  your  wife,  become  hateful  to  me;  and 
your  close  acquaintance  with  feminine  psy- 
chology and  the  art  of  love-making,  would 
either  be  dangerous  to  me,  or,  as  recalling  past 
times,  unpleasant  at  the  least.  And  you,  you 
would  have  to  become  insincere;  to  gain  a 
wife,  you  would  necessarily  lose  a  friend :  and 
surely  a  friend  is  worth  more.  .  .  ." 

He  walked  along  in  silence,  listening  to  me. 

"And  besides,"  I  concluded,  "let  me  tell 
you  that  you  have  come  too  late.  A  year  ago, 
at  the  time  when  you  never  would  treat  me 
but  as  a  friend,  it  would  have  been  possible. 


A  Canticle  of  Love  305 

Then  I  was  not  unf  requently  vexed  with  you, 
calling  you  (I  remember)  a  boarding  school 
miss,  when  you  extolled  friendship  and  poured 
your  love-theory  into  my  ears.  To-day  I  am 
not  for  love  any  more.  Not  because  Fate  has 
dealt  me  any  crushing  blow.  Nothing  of  the 
sort;  but  merely  because  it  has  all  been  most 
fearfully  boring  to  me.  And  at  present  I  am 
taking  my  revenge  for  it  upon  you,  in  the  pro- 
verbial phrase:  'Let  us  remain  friends.' ' 

I  had  quickened  my  pace.  Wiazewski  said 
not  a  word.  I  felt  as  if  I  was  hastening 
towards  a  dark  chasm  which  ever  drew  back 
before  me,  fleeing  as  I  advanced.  ...  I  want 
all  to  be  over — to  lie  there,  at  the  bottom  of 
that  murky  chasm ;  and,  do  what  I  may,  I  can- 
not arrive  at  the  brink.  And  my  teeth  are 
clenched  with  pain. 

"If  you  knew  how  madly  I  love  the  ex- 
ceeding sweetness  of  his  mouth!"  The  words 
flashed  then  through  my  mind :  a  reminiscence 
of  the  far-off,  far-off  Past! 

"I  cannot  understand  you  in  the  least. 
Never,  never,  should  I  have  acted  so  in  your 
place." 

"Well,  Gina,  it  is  over.    Tell  me  now  what 


306  Kobiety 

remedy  you  would  advise  me  to  take.  How 
do  you  yourself  manage  to  bear  life?  To  re- 
main passive,  doing  nothing — that  were  surely 
impossible.  Work?  But  work  is  of  no  avail. 
Unless  something  happens  to  rescue  me,  I 
shall  have  to  leave  the  office ;  I  fear  I  am  about 
to  go  mad.  .  .  .  Are  you  still  interested  in 
art?  You  paint  very  little  now;  I  cannot 
make  out  why." 

Gina  shook  her  head  with  a  drowsy  air.  "I 
always  preferred  Life  to  Art." 

"Why,"  I  said,  noticing  that  she  was  in 
evening  dress,  "you  are  going  out  to-night!" 
The  thought  of  staying  by  myself  all  the  eve- 
ning made  me  shudder.  At  the  same  time,  I 
felt  my  cheeks  colouring,  for  I  feared  there 
was  a  mortification  in  store  for  me  which  I 
could  not  understand.  "I  trust  you  will  tell 
me  quite  frankly." 

For  a  few  seconds  she  knit  her  brows  and 
reflected.  Then,  "I  think,"  she  said,  "that  it 
will  not  be  impossible.  ...  I  have  for  a  long 
time  wished  to  make  you  the  proposal;  but,  in 
such  a  matter,  one  cannot  be  too  cautious.  .  .  . 
Yet,  after  all,  we  too  have  something  in  com- 
mon. And  I  have  learned  to  know  you." 

Abruptly  she  came  to  a  decision. 


A  Canticle  of  Love  307 

"Then — yes,  I  can  recommend  something 
to  you.     If  you  hold  out,  it  is  only  by  its 


means." 


"Give  it  me,  quick!" 

"Wait  a  little.  I  must  in  the  first  place 
demand  of  you  to  keep  this  a  profound  secret. 
I  hide  nothing  else  that  I  do:  yet  this  I  hide. 
Secondly:  it  is  something  that,  for  effects 
and  surroundings'  sake,  we  do  in  conclave.  I 
shall  take  you  there." 

We  went. 

Radlowski  came  to  open  the  door.  When 
he  saw  me,  he  was  taken  aback,  though  he  tried 
to  carry  it  off  under  a  show  of  courtesy. 

"We  have  a  neophyte  here,"  Gina  ex- 
plained. 

But  the  explanation  rather  increased  than 
removed  his  trouble,  though  he  at  once  pre- 
tended lively  satisfaction.  He  said  aside  to 
Gina:  "But  something  must  be  done:  Emma 
is  here." 

Gina  laughed.  "Oh,  all  the  better!  If  you 
have  nothing  but  that  to  make  you  uneasy!" 

Radlowski  was  now  more  at  ease.  He 
ushered  us  into  his  bedchamber,  beyond  the 
studio,  and  left  us  there  together.  Now  and 
then  we  could  hear  a  confused  sound  of  talk- 


308  Kobiety 

ing,  though  the  voices  were  low,  in  the  next 
room. 

"And  Emma,  who  is  she?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  a  most  beautiful  woman,  though  not 
exactly  admissible  into  society.  One  of  the 
celebrated  etoiles  of  beauty,  formerly  a  model 
of  Radlowski's." 

Gina,  picking  up  a  small  phial  from  the 
toilet  table,  took  some  of  the  contents  herself, 
and  then  gave  me  directions  how  the  narcotic 
was  to  be  taken. 

We  went  into  the  studio,  where  a  wealth  of 
carpets,  hangings,  bits  of  tapestry,  and  wide 
low  Ottomans  was  scattered  about.  Nothing 
here  revealed  the  artistic  disorder  of  the 
typical  atelier.  In  a  corner,  however,  there 
stood  an  easel,  with  a  half-finished  canvas — a 
portrait;  and  several  paintings  hung  from  the 
walls. 

By  the  delicate  radiance  of  several  glass  and 
paper  patterns  of  artistic  design,  I  perceived 
some  men  and  women,  who  all  rose  to  greet 
us  as  we  came  in. 

Emma  I  recognized  at  the  first  glance.  She 
got  up  and  walked  slowly  towards  Gina,  look- 
ing all  the  time  straight  at  us,  out  of  wonder- 
fully bright  and  unnaturally  dilated  pupils. 


A  Canticle  of  Love  309 

She  wore  what  was  not  so  much  a  dress  as  a 
veil,  beneath  whose  light  clinging  folds,  of  a 
steely  blue  tint,  the  shape  of  her  body,  not 
covered  by  any  other  garment,  was  discerni- 
ble; and  a  broad  Venetian  girdle,  gold- 
wrought  and  ponderous,  dangled  from  the 
wide  hips  round  which  it  passed. 

Many  a  fair  woman  have  I  seen  in  my  life; 
but,  at  her  sight,  I  overflowed  with  admira- 
tion. As  soon  as  I  beheld  her,  I  had  a  desire 
to  laugh  aloud,  and  kneel  down,  and  thank  her 
for  that  she  was  so  marvellously  fair. 

All  that  had  hitherto  fascinated  me  now 
seemed  to  be  effete  and  colourless.  I  would 
never  have  believed  that  any  being  so  majesti- 
cal,  so  like  a  classical  antique,  so  royally  more 
than  beautiful,  could  exist  in  the  real  world. 
All  there  was  of  pure  nature  in  her  was — 
that  she  lived;  the  rest  appeared  like  a  master- 
piece of  painting,  of  sculpture,  of  poetry.  She 
was  indeed  fairer  than  anything  in  nature — 
whether  in  the  azure  heavens,  or  in  the  mead- 
ows, or  in  the  forests — fairer  than  a  Midsum- 
mer night! 

She  kissed  Gina  as  she  went  forward  to  wel- 
come her.  To  me  she  gave  her  hand  only, 
with  a  courteous  but  frigid  mien.  Her  eyes, 


3io  Kobiety 

looking  into  mine,  expressed  distrust  and  scru- 
tiny, though  she  strove  to  appear  icily  serene. 

The  other  woman  present  belonged  without 
question  to  "good  society";  a  pleasant,  hand- 
some, dreamy  blonde.  Radlowski,  when  he 
introduced  us  to  each  other,  artfully  found 
means  to  avoid  uttering  her  name.  She  was 
one  of  the  irreprochables,  come  here  incog- 
nito. All  the  men  were  already  known  to  me 
by  name:  two  painters,  a  few  literary  men, 
and  a  poet.  Like  Emma,  they  too  had  un- 
naturally dilated  pupils;  Radlowski,  Gina, 
and  the  irreproachable  unknown  lady  were 
all  alike  in  this  respect. 

On  making  acquaintance  with  these  people, 
I  remarked,  not  without  a  pleasant  surprise, 
that  all  the  collars  were  immaculate,  and  none 
turned  down;  that  not  one  tie  was  eccentric, 
not  one  head  of  hair  superabundant.  On  the 
contrary,  their  dress  was  in  good  taste,  their 
behaviour  unaffected,  their  bearing  quietly  re- 
fined. Seen  in  the  midst  of  this  company, 
Emma  was  a  far  greater  anachronism — twice 
as  striking,  twice  as  fantastic. 

They  all  speak  under  their  breath;  no  one 
contradicts,  no  one  is  excited.  There  is  no 
general  conversation,  only  a  few  utterances 


A  Canticle  of  Love  311 

here  and  there.  They  talk  neither  of  litera- 
ture, nor  of  painting;  life,  and  the  present 
day,  is  all  they  speak  of.  They  hold  discourse 
about  frivolous  or  ordinary  matters,  with 
elaborate  elegance;  and  their  fashion  of  tak- 
ing things,  their  tone  and  temper,  shows  at 
once  what  manner  of  men  they  are.  They  are 
of  those  who  have  now  left  behind  them  the 
Past — the  stress  and  storm  of  finally  trium- 
phant Decadentism — and  have  arrived  at 
some  sort  of  fragmentary  synthesis,  which  they 
have  set  up  as  their  standard.  Their  mental 
equilibrium  has  bestowed  upon  them  an  amaz- 
ing excellence  of  form,  a  philosophical  calm 
in  their  way  of  looking  upon  the  world,  and 
an  ecstatic  cult  of  life,  which,  from  their 
standpoint,  becomes  all  but  synonymous  with 
the  Beautiful.  They  are  all  characterized  by 
great  enlightenment,  mental  distinction,  con- 
tempt for  all  unsightly  mediocrity,  pictur- 
esque in  their  life,  and  a  moderation  inex- 
pressibly artistic  and  reposeful — something 
like  the  Greek  soul. 

One  of  the  painters  exclaimed:  "I  should 
like  to  remind  Emma  of  the  promise  she  made 
us  last  night,  which  was  so  gratifying  to  us 
all." 


312  Kobiety 

"Ah,  yes :  we  are  all  expectant." 

"Emma  is  something  of  a  litterateur,  and 
writes  poetry,"  a  slender  fair-haired  young 
man  beside  me  explained. 

An  exception  to  the  universal  custom  took 
place.  She  made  no  bashful  excuses. 

"As  you  like,"  she  said. 

With  exquisite  grace  in  every  movement, 
she  rose  from  the  sofa,  and  traversed  the 
studio  slowly,  that  we  might  feast  our  en- 
chanted eyes  on  the  spectacle  of  that  fairy-like 
beauty. 

Enamoured,  not  unlike  Narcissus,  of  her 
own  goodly  form,  and  radiant  with  her  lofty 
queen-like  head,  her  shoulders  moulded  as 
perfectly  as  a  Greek  statue,  her  cream-hued 
limbs  just  visible  beneath  the  clinging  tissue 
that  she  wore — she  came  to  a  standstill  op- 
posite me.  With  a  motion  as  harmoniously 
entrancing  as  a  strain  of  music,  she  adjusted 
the  golden  fillet  on  her  superbly  chiselled 
Pagan  brow,  and  began  her  recitation: 

She  is  in  love,  the  Ice-Queen, — charmed  and  spell-bound; 
Strings  of  cold  pearls  fall  from  her  iced  cascades; 
Flowers  in  her  frozen  cisterns  weirdly  blossom ; 
Flowers  in  her  chilly  grottoes  flame  like  gold. 


A  Canticle  of  Love  313 

I  have  this  night  guessed  the  stars'  Runic  riddle:  .  .  . 
There,  on  the  verdant  banks  of  Life, — alas ! 
Some  one  hath  rent  in  twain  the  shroud  sepulchral.  .  .  . 
Under  that  shroud  sepulchral  Sleep  lies  dead. 

Why  should  I  yearn  impatient  for  the  morning, 
Since  it  is  writ  that  I  expire  at  dawn? 
Oh, — for  my  heart  distraught  still  loves  Life  madly, — 
I  will  my  true  love  call  to  me  to-day! 

"Come  to  me,  dear  one!  greet  me,  but  in  silence, 
Lest  thou  shouldst  wake  sad  Memory's  sleeping  ghosts ; 
Quietly  let  them  down,  the  ice-cold  curtains: 
Quietly  draw  the  silken  veils  aside. 

"Come  to  my  tent,  though  dark  it  is  around  us: 
Fear  not ;  the  stars  are  twinkling  soft  above ; 
( Fain  would  my  wings  of  silver  soar  to  join  them ! ) : 
Cover  thine  eyes,  love,  from  the  dread  black  night! 

"Wilt  thou  two  clusters — grapes  with  warm  blood  swell- 


ing 


Lay  twixt  my  breasts,  O  lay  thy  golden  head ! 

Me  let  thine  arms,  mighty  with  youth's  keen  transport, 

Clasp  in  embraces  like  the  serpent's  coil. 

"Here  is  no  skiey  vault  unfathomable ; 

Here  are  no  stars  that  gleam  athwart  the  blue. — 

They  are  a  silken  tent,  my  silky  tresses ; 

Stars,  too,  shine  bright: — naught  but  mine  eyes  are  they! 


314  Kobiety 

"Take  thou  my  blood,  take  all  that  is  my  being: 
Give  me  my  memories,  my  sleep  of  yore! — 
I  had  a  dream  that  froze  my  founts  of  gladness — 
I  had  a  dream,  .  .  .  dim  ghosts  with  muffled  sobs ! 

"Dreams  are  but  dreams! — Seest  thou  the  sun's  red  circle; 
Huge,  tinged  with  gore  o'  the  early  dawn? — Thy  lips, — 
Oh,  how  I  love  them — they  are  crimson  roses, 
Roses  of  kingly  purple,  .  .  .  and  are  mine! 

"Broken  my  wings  are :  at  thy  feet  I  lay  them 
(Soaring  aloft  i'  the  airy  void,  they  broke): 
Oh,  how  I  love  thee !    Thou'rt  a  golden  garland 
Glinting  resplendent  in  my  silky  hair!" 

The  recitation  over,  she  waved  us  a  salute, 
and  a  gold  bracelet  flashed  above  the  elbow 
of  her  bare  arm.  Then  she  sank  on  to  the 
nearest  sofa,  covered  with  carpeting  of  a  rich 
pattern.  She  received  no  thanks,  nor  did  she 
expect  any.  There  she  lay,  her  hands  clasped 
beneath  her  head,  and  the  black  diamonds  of 
her  eyes  gazing  steadfastly  up  to  the  ceiling. 

"Oh,  what  heavenly  bliss  I  am  beginning  to 
feel  now!"  was  the  thought  that  flashed  upon 
me  all  at  once. 

Yes,  the  narcotic  was  acting  already. 
Everything  in  me  that  was  evil,  or  pained,  or 
imperfect,  had  vanished  away.  I  was  filled 


A  Canticle  of  Love  315 

with  light — a  chilly  splendour,  supremely 
contemptuous  of  all  things,  supremely  bliss- 
ful. 

The  chill  had  spread  around  me.  There 
was, — in  the  wide-open,  quiescent  eyes  of  all 
those  men,  gazing  as  in  a  hypnotic  trance 
upon  the  miracle  of  female  beauty  which  they 
beheld, — the  uncanny  greenish  light  which 
certain  gases  in  slow  combustion  give  out. 
We  were  in  an  atmosphere  of  superhuman 
delight;  a  delight  that  was  not  earthly;  the 
sempiternally  fascinating  delight  of  Non- 
Existence. 

There  was  a  hearkening  to  the  silence,  and 
a  listening  with  riveted  and  petrified  atten- 
tion. The  least  little  murmur  of  life  gave 
pain.  No  one  was  allowed  into  the  studio; 
black  coffee  was  poured  out  by  Radlowski 
and  Gina,  and  brought  to  each  of  us  by  them. 
And  soft  and  low  fell  slowly  from  our  lips 
words  as  of  silken  tissue,  containing  thoughts 
of  delicate  essence,  recondite  and  shrouded  in 
mystery. 

The  unknown  blonde  was  saying  to  Emma : 

"At  such  moments  as  these,  I  never  give  one 
thought  to  my  lover.  ...  I  wish  to  feel  no 
love  for  him,  in  order  that  I  may  dream  of 


316  Kobiety 

Love  itself.  ...  I  see  a  land  such  as  on  earth 
there  is  none:  where  a  Not-sun  shines,  and 
where  Not-flowers  have  fragrance!  A  vision! 
...  I  behold  a  lover  who  is  not  of  the  earth, 
and  him  alone  I  love.  ...  In  a  vision.  .  .  . 
In  my  slumbers!" 

"There  is  nothing  in  the  world,"  said 
Emma,  "so  beautiful  as  that  which  is  not  in  it. 
.  .  .  Oh,  how  sweet  is  the  craving  after  the 
love  that  is  nowhere  to  be  found!" 

We  were  all  experiencing  an  extraordinary 
and  ecstatic  glow:  and  in  our  state  nothing 
appeared  too  na'ive  or  too  exalte. 

I  felt  full  of  kindly  inclination  towards 
these  people,  and  of  deep  gratitude  as  well, 
because  they  were  all  in  such  harmony  with 
one  another.  It  was  almost  pure  ideal  friend- 
ship, based  on  community  of  admirations  and 
disdains,  and  mutually  uniting  all  those  of  the 
same  caste :  the  cool  and  egotistical  friendship 
which  one  demigod  may  feel  for  another. 

The  slenderly  built  young  man  whom  I 
have  mentioned  leant  forward  to  me: 

"Pray  tell  me  something  of  love." 

"Love?    I  know  one  kind  only." 

"And  what  is  that?" 

"The  fanatical,  the  Pagan  love  of  Self." 


A  Canticle  of  Love  317 

I  clasped  my  hands,  and  rested  my  head 
upon  them.  Looking  forth  into  that  infinite 
distance  where  all  is  rigid,  where  no  motion 
is  possible,  and  partly  unconscious  of  what  I 
was  saying,  I  spoke  thus: 

"Oh!  how  I  love  myself  in  all  my  mani- 
festations! In  all  my  loves  and  abhorrences; 
in  all  my  dreamings  and  scornings ;  in  all  those 
most  mournful  victories  of  my  own  uncon- 
querable strength! — Ah!  how  willingly  would 
I  die  this  very  night,  this  wonderful  night  of 
the  blossoming  and  perishing  of  my  desires!" 

From  one  instant  to  the  next,  my  feelings 
were  growing  stranger  and  stranger.  Some- 
thing akin  to  dread  was  now  taking  hold 
upon  me.  Somewhere-— far,  far  away,  as  it 
were  down  at  the  very  bottom  of  the  gulf  of 
Life, — I  heard  a  carriage  clatter  past,  and  a 
shudder  of  unutterable  dismay  then  shook  me. 
Unwittingly,  I  drew  closer  to  my  next  neigh- 
bour. .  .  .  Presently,  I  was  aware  of  the 
soothing,  almost  spiritual  caress  of  some  one's 
cool  white  hand,  passing  over  my  forehead. 
As  I  felt  it  stroke  me  so  gently,  my  alarms 
were  dispelled;  and  again  I  was  steeped  in 
that  phosphorescent  zodiacal  luminosity,  as  of 
gases  in  slow  combustion. 


3i8  Kobiety 

And  now  it  returned,  that  vision,  that  ma- 
jestic long-forgotten  vision.  Once  more  I  saw 
around  me  the  endless  stretches  of  ,the  icy 
plains.  The  sun  was  not  seen  in  the  jet-black 
sky;  and  above  the  horizon  rose  the  cold 
greenish  glimmer  of  the  Northern  Lights. 
And  lo,  those  cold  dead  dreams  of  mine  had 
come  to  life  again! 

There  is  no  more  any  Ego  of  mine.  .  .  . 
I  am  beyond  existence  and  beyond  nothing- 
ness— in  that  world  wherein  dies  the  imme- 
morial conflict  between  dream  and  vigil, 
where  Wrong,  robed  in  her  queenly  purple, 
is  no  longer  shadowed  by  Vengeance,  attired 
in  pallid  green ;  where  stony  Hatred  no  longer 
hugs  in  her  fierce  embrace  the  weeping  god 
of  love;  where  the  marble  statue  of  Pride  no 
more  does  homage  to  the  grim  spectre,  Fear ; 
wherein  there  are  no  more  wretched  victories, 
nor  the  portentous  delights  of  worshipping 
Self  and  the  Power  of  Self  1 

And  I  am  in  such  bliss — bliss  so  celestial, 
so  divine! 

That? — Oh,  that?  ...  It  has  passed  away. 
Only  .  .  .  from  time  to  time  .  .  , 

Yes,  from  time  to  time,  I  cast  away  all 


A  Canticle  of  Love  319 

traces  of  kisses  in  the  Past — put  aside  my 
wreath  of  purple  velvet  flowers — and  go, 
walking  tranquilly  and  slowly,  by  the  cold 
light  of  the  moon,  to  kneel  at  the  grave  where 
my  dreams  lie  buried,  and  press  my  brow  to 
the  base  of  the  tombstone  that  covers  them, 
.  .  .  and  muse. 

Once,  I  hung  up  a  wreath  of  snow-white 
lilies  there;  now,  I  do  so  no  more.  I  never 
carry  any  flowers  to  that  tomb  now. 

Nor  do  I  ever  strive  to  roll  away  the  grey 
stone  from  the  sepulchre — that  stone,  with  its 
black  fretwork  of  ferns  graven  upon  it  of  old. 

Then  I  go  home,  and  again  array  myself  in 
my  purple  velvet  flowers.  .  .  . 

Fragrance,  beyond  words,  wild  and  fatal 
perfume  of  withered  roses!  Sweet,  most 
sweet  and  ardent  lips — lips  now  lost  for  ever! 
.  .  .  Ah,  that  houri,  with  arms  like  pale  dead 
gold! 

All  this — I  can  no  longer  say  whether  it 
was  a  dream  or  not.  .  .  . 

Ah!  but  what  is  this?  Have  the  cool  white 
lilies  blossomed  once  again  in  my  deserted 
garden? 

A  dream! — A  dream  1 


320  Kobiety 

That  hand,  of  pure  white  tint, 

Full  fain  a  bell  would  swing 
That  nevermore  may  ring, 

For  the  long  rift  within't. 

But  why  then  am  I  so  immensely,  so  divine- 
ly happy? 

Those  eyes,  dim,  sweet,  and  sad,  of  him  who 
once  was  mine! — I  can  no  longer  say  whether 
it  was  all  a  dream,  or  not.  My  ice-plains  once 
more,  my  ice-plains! — No — before  these — 
still  farther  back!  .  .  .  still  farther!  An- 
other, and  a  far  different,  sweet  smell :  a  fresh 
delicious  perfume — of  meadows  in  flower,  of 
willow  catkins,  of  the  lilacs  in  blossom. — Yel- 
low marigolds!  (O  heavens,  those  strange 
far-off  memories!)  .  .  .  O  sunshine,  O  green 
fields,  O  adorable  bygone  days!  .  .  .  O  my 
childhood! 

Tears  flow  in  torrents — tears  for  the  sun- 
shine, for  life,  for  happiness. — Do  not  wipe 
my  eyes,  for  they  are  dropping  pearls!  Why* 
brush  those  pearls  away? 

That  hand,  of  pure  white  tint, 

Oh,  let  it  never  swing 

The  bell  which  cannot  ring 
For  the  deep  rift  that's  in't. 


A  Canticle  of  Love  321 

I  awoke  long  after  daybreak. 

Gina  was  bending  over  me. 

"Let  us  leave  the  place,"  she  said ;  "you  are 
a  little  shaken.  A  usual  thing  the  first  time. 
You  must  accustom  yourself." 

A  tall  woman,  draped  from  head  to  foot  in 
a  long  mantle  of  white  fur,  was  waiting  for 
us.  Her  complexion  was  of  a  muddy  yellow- 
ish hue;  her  eyes  were  dull  and  sodden.  It 
took  me  more  than  one  glance  to  make  sure 
who  she  was. 

We  were  accompanied  to  the  carriage  by  a 
grey-haired  gentleman  whom — so  far  as  I 
could  remember — I  had  never  seen  before. 

I  put  up  my  hands  to  my  eyes,  unwilling 
now  to  look  upon  the  world  any  more. 

And  with  this  my  canticle  of  love  comes  to 
an  end. 

I  had  asked  Smilowicz  to  let  the  Professor 
know  I  was  going  to  call  upon  him:  and  I 
have  been  there  to-day. 

What  a  curious  feeling  I  had  in  beholding 
once  more  those  solemn-looking  apartments, 
lined  all  round  with  books  up  to  the  very  ceil- 
ing and  the  same  beautiful  old  man,  now  a 
little  older! 


322  Kobiety 

He  welcomed  me  with  joy. 

"My  prodigal  daughter,"  he  said,  "is  ever 
so  much  dearer  to  me  now  than  beforel" 

To  have  kept  complete  silence  about  the 
rupture  which  had  taken  place,  would  not 
have  satisfied  his  kindness. 

"You  must  not  fancy  I  am  quite  disinter- 
ested in  wishing  you  back  again,"  he  said.  "I 
have  something  special  in  view." 

"What  may  that  be,  Professor?" 

"I  have  just  received  permission  from  the 
Russian  Government  to  publish  a  scientific 
journal,  and  it  has  confirmed  me  in  my  status 
as  editor.  As  my  secretary,  you  would  be  use- 
ful, and  I  ask  you  to  accept  the  position." 

"I  should  do  so  with  pleasure,  but  my  occu> 
pation  prevents  me." 

"Your  office?  You  will  give  it  up :  it  is  no 
fitting  situation  for  you.  I  have  been  think- 
ing it  over:  this  is  just  what  will  serve  most  to 
bring  your  abilities  into  full  play.  You  will 
have  to  do  the  'Intelligence'  columns,  make 
summaries,  and  write  translations — at  first. 
And  it  will  be  necessary  to  read  very,  very 
much.  I  have  by  me  a  great  number  of  new 
and  highly  interesting  works,  which  I  must 
show  you. — Well,  what  do  you  say?" 


A  Canticle  of  Love  323 

I  said  yes. 

During  our  conversation,  I  was  under  the 
same  impression  that  I  had,  when  I  went  to 
see  Mme.  Smilowicz.  I  was  no  longer  'up-to- 
date,'  for  I  had  long  given  up  reading. — Obo- 
janski  talked  at  length  to  me  about  various 
changes  that  had  latterly  taken  place  in  his 
field  of  science. 

Those  last  years  had  been  lost  for  me.  My 
abandonment  of  the  "Ice-plains"  had  cost  me 
dear.  I  had  learned  nothing  by  having  be- 
come acquainted  with  Life;  I  was  not  capable 
of  forming  any  synthetic  views  about  it.  The 
more  we  know  of  it,  the  less  is  it  possible  to 
comprehend  it  in  any  systematized  general- 
ization.— Everything  in  Life  contradicts 
everything  else:  Science  is  by  far  more  con- 
sistent. 

"But,"  Obojanski  asked,  "to  what  am  I  to 
ascribe  your  return?" 

"To  Smilowicz." 

"I  don't  mean  that.  There  must  have  been 
something  deeper  down — some  change  in  your 
mind  and  views,  eh?" 

He  no  doubt  expected  to  hear  some  ro- 
mantic phrases  about  the  barrenness  of  life 


324  Kobiety 

spent  as  in  those  years,  and  of  its  failure  to 
give  me  happiness. 

Instead  of  which,  I  made  him  this  unfore- 
seen reply: 

"Well,  on  the  whole,  it  is  because  I  prefer 
to  return  to  you  whom  I  have  left,  rather  than 
to  the  Church!" 

And  Obojanski  eyed  me  in  bewilderment. 


THE  END. 


A  Selection  from  the 
Catalogue  of 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


Complete  Catalogues  sent 
on  application 


The 

Rose  of  Jericho 

By 

Ruth  Holt  Boucicault 

It  is  a  remarkable  fact  that  stories 
of  the  stage  seldom  reflect  its  ro- 
mance and  glamour.  This  story  has 
caught  both  and  at  the  same  time  is 
faithful  to  that  mimic  world.  We 
have  here  lifelike  character  por- 
trayal, a  heroine  of  courage  and  fas- 
cination, and  that  struggle  against 
odds,  new  and  unusual,  which  is 
indispensable  to  any  vital  story. 

Q.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


The  Comedienne 

By 

Wladyslaw  Reymont 

E  COMEDIENNE"  is  the 
tale  of  a  Polish  girl  who  rebels 
against  her  drab  existence  in  a  remote 
hamlet,  and  joins  a  company  of  pro- 
vincial players.  Against  the  colorful 
background  of  this  theatrical  life  her 
tragic  story  is  woven. 

The  character  and  development  of 
this  strange  young  Slavic  woman  and 
the  settings  and  personalities  of  her 
environment  are  described  with  gra- 
phic strength  by  Wladyslaw  Reymont. 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


THE  STRANGENESS 
OF  NOEL  CARTON 

By 
WILLIAM  CAINE 


Noel  Carton,  driven  to  desperation 
by  his  vulgar  little  wife  who,  in  buy- 
ing his  position,  is  forced  to  accept  him 
with  it,  determines  to  bury  himself  in 
the  writing  of  a  novel,  in  the  vain  hope 
of  forgetting.  At  the  same  time  he 
elects  to  keep  a  secret  journal.  In  his 
novel  he  subconsciously  draws  the 
portraits  of  the  living  people  surround- 
ing him. 

How  this  novel  becomes  inextricably 
entangled  with  his  own  journal  is  the 
basis  for  this  extraordinarily  original 
story  which  leads  to  an  astounding 
climax. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

New  York  London 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


'D  LD-URL 
D^Llr9 

SEP  2  8  1966 
2  P 


pr  i9'67 


Book  Slip-25m-9,'60(,B2«36s4)4280 


UCLA-College  Library 

PG7158N14kE 


College 
Library 

PG 

7158 

NllkE 


L  005  733  439  3 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    001  132  996    8 


